CAPTAIN  IAN  HAY  BEITH 


Trro  us  £>?&(     * 

TO 

MY  WIFE 


331251 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

THE  "Junior  Sub,"  who  writes  the  following  ac- 
count of  the  experiences  of  some  of  the  first  hundred 
thousand  of  Kitchener's  army,  is,  as  the  title-page 
of  the  volume  now  reveals,  Ian  Hay  Beith,  author 
of  those  deservedly  popular  novels,  The  Right  Stuff, 
A  Man's  Man,  A  Safety  Match,  and  Happy-Go- 


Captain  Beith,  who  was  born  in  1876  and  there- 
fore narrowly  came  within  the  age  limit  for  mili- 
tary service,  enlisted  at  the  first  outbreak  of  hos- 
tilities in  the  summer  of  1914,  and  was  made  a  sub- 
lieutenant in  the  Argyll  and  Sutherland  High- 
landers. After  training  throughout  the  fall  and 
winter  at  Aldershot,  he  accompanied  his  regiment 
to  the  front  in  April,  and,  as  his  narrative  discloses, 
immediately  saw  some  very  active  service  and 
rapidly  rose  to  the  rank  of  captain.  In  the  offen- 
sive of  September,  Captain  Beith's  division  was 
badly  cut  up  and  seriously  reduced  in  numbers. 
He  has  lately  been  transferred  to  a  machine-gun 
division,  and  "for  some  mysterious  reason"  —  as 
he  characteristically  puts  it  in  a  letter  to  his  pub- 
lishers, —  has  been  recommended  for  the  military 
cross. 


viii  PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

The  story  of  The  First  Hundred  Thousand  was 
originally  contributed  in  the  form  of  an  anonymous 
narrative  to  Blackwood's  Magazine.  Writing  to  his 
publishers,  last  May,  Captain  Beith  describes  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  was  written:  — 

"I  write  this  from  the  stone  floor  of  an  outhouse, 
where  the  pig  meal  is  first  accumulated  and  then 
boiled  up  at  a  particularly  smelly  French  farm, 
which  is  saying  a  good  deal.  It  is  a  most  interest- 
ing life,  and  if  I  come  through  the  present  unpleas- 
antness I  shall  have  enough  copy  to  last  me  twenty 
years.  Meanwhile,  I  am  using  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine as  a  safety-valve  under  a  pseudonym." 

It  is  these  "safety-valve"  papers  that  are  here 
offered  to  the  American  public  in  their  complete- 
ness, —  a  picture  of  the  great  struggle  uniquely 
rich  in  graphic  human  detail. 

4  PARK  STREET 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE 
BLANK  CARTRIDGES 

I.  AB  OVO •  3 

II.   THE  DAILY  GRIND 7 

III.  GROWING  PAINS 14 

IV.  THE  CONVERSION  OP  PRIVATE  M'SLATTERY  19 

v.  "CRIME" 25 

VI.   THE  LAWS  OF  THE  MEDES  AND  PERSIANS    .  37 

VII.   SHOOTING  STRAIGHT           ....  53 

VIII.    BILLETS 83 

IX.   MID-CHANNEL 95 

X.   DEEDS  OP  DARKNESS          ....  107 

XI.  OLYMPUS 132 

XII.    .  .  .  AND  SOME   FELL  BY  THE  WAYSIDE     .  149 

XIII.   CONCERT  PITCH 164 

BOOK  TWO 
LIVE  ROUNDS 

XIV.    THE  BACK  OP  THE  FRONT         .  .  .187 

XV.   IN  THE  TRENCHES  —  AN  OFF-DAY    .           .  200 

xvi.  "DIRTY  WORK  AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS  TO- 
NIGHT"           214 

XVII.   THE  NEW  WARFARE  .  .  .  .228 

XVIII.   THE  FRONT  OF  THE   FRONT       .  .  .238 

XIX.   THE  TRIVIAL  ROUND  .  .  .  .268 

XX.   THE  GATHERING   OF  THE  EAGLES      .           .  300 

XXI.  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE   SLAG-HEAPS    .  312 


"K(D" 

We  do  not  deem  ourselves  A  1, 

We  have  no  past:  we  cut  no  dash: 

Nor  hope,  when  launched  against  the  Hun, 

To  raise  a  more  than  moderate  splash. 

But  yesterday,  we  said  farewell 
To  plough;  to  pit;  to  dock;  to  mill. 
For  glory?  Drop  it!  Why?  Oh,  well  — 
To  have  a  slap  at  Kaiser  Bill. 

And  now  to-day  has  come  along. 
With  rifle,  haversack,  and  pack, 
We're  off,  a  hundred  thousand  strong. 
And  —  some  of  us  will  not _ come  back. 


But  all  we  ask,  if  that  befall, 

Is  this.  Within  your  hearts  be  writ 

This  single-line  memorial:  — 

He  did  his  duty  —  and  his  bit!        y 


NOTE 

THE  reader  is  hereby  cautioned  against  regard- 
ing this  narrative  as  an  official  history  of  the 
Great  War. 

The  following  pages  are  merely  a  record  of 
some  of  the  personal  adventures  of  a  typical 
regiment  of  Kitchener's  Army. 

The  chapters  were  written  from  day  to  day,   \h 
and  published  from  month  to  month.    Conse- 
quently, prophecy  is  occasionally  falsified,  and 
opinions  moderated,  in  subsequent  pages. 

The  characters  are  entirely  fictitious,  but  the 
incidents  described  all  actually  occurred. 


BOOK   ONE 
BLANK  CARTRIDGES 


The  First  Hundred  Thousand 


AB   OVO 

"SQUOAD 'Shun!  Move  to  the  right  in 

fours.  Forrm fourrrs!" 

The  audience  addressed  looks  up  with 
languid  curiosity,  but  makes  no  attempt  to 
comply  with  the  speaker's  request. 

"Come  away  now,  come  away!"  urges 
the  instructor,  mopping  his  brow.  "Mind 
me:  on  the  command  'form  fours,'  odd  num- 
bers will  stand  fast;  even  numbers  tak'  a 
shairp  pace  to  the  rear  and  anither  to  the 
right.  Now forrm  fourrs!" 

The  squad  stands  fast,  to  a  man.  Ap- 
parently—  nay,  verily  —  they  are  all  odd 
numbers. 

The  instructor  addresses  a  gentleman  in 
a  decayed  Homburg  hat,  who  is  chewing  to- 
bacco in  the  front  rank. 


4     /!FtHE-.FJpST>.HUJirDEED   THOUSAND 

"Yous,  what's  your  number?" 

The  ruminant  ponders. 

"Seeven  fowar~"OTgfht  seeven  seeven,"  he 
announces,  after  a  prolonged  mental  effort. 

The  instructor  raises  clenched  hands  to 
heaven. 

"Man,  I'm  no  asMn'\you  your  regi- 
mental number!  Never  need  that.  It's 
your  number  in  the  squad  I'm  seeking.  You 
numbered  off  frae  the  right  five  minutes 
syne. ' ' 

Ultimately  it  transpires  that  the  culprit's 
number  is  ten.  He  is  pushed  into  his  place, 
in  company  with  the  other  even  numbers, 
and  the  squad  finds  itself  approximately  in 
fours. 

"Forrm two  deep!"  barks  the  in- 
structor. 

The  fours  disentangle  themselves  reluct- 
antly, Number  Ten  being  the  last  to  forsake 
his  post. 

"Now  we'll  dae  it  jist  yince  more,  and 
have  it  right,"  announces  the  instructor, 
with  quite  unjustifiable  optimism.  "Forrm 

fourrs!" 

'This  time  the  result  is  better,  but  there  is 
confusion  on  the  left  flank. 

"Yon  man,  oot  there  on  the  left,"  shouts 
the  instructor,  "what's  your  number?" 

Private  Mucklewame,  whose  mind  is  slow 
but  tenacious,  answers  —  not  without  pride  at 
knowing  — 

"Nineteen!" 


AB   OVO  5 

'(Thank  goodness,  he  reflects,  odd  numbers 
stand  fast  upon  all  occasions.) 

"Weel,  mind  this,"  says  the  sergeant  — 
"Left  files  is  always  even  numbers,  even 
though  they  are  odd  numbers." 

This  revelation  naturally  clouds  Private 
Mucklewame's  intellect  for  the  afternoon; 
and  he  wonders  dimly,  not  for  the  first  time, 
why  he  ever  abandoned  his  well-paid  and 
well-fed  job  as  a  butcher's  assistant  in  dis- 
tant Wishaw  ten  long  days  ago. 

And  so  the  drill  goes  on.  All  over  the 
drab,  dusty,  gritty  parade-ground,  under  the 
warm  September  sun,  similar  squads  are 
being  pounded  into  shape.  They  have  no 
uniforms  yet:  even  their  instructors  wear 
bowler  hats  or  cloth  caps.  Some  of  the  faces 
under  the  brims  of  these  hats  are  not  too 
prosperous.  The  junior  officers  are  drilling 
squads  too.  They  are  a  little  shaky  in  what 
an  actor  would  call  their  "patter,"  and  they 
are  inclined  to  lay  stress  on  the  wrong  sylla- 
bles ;  but  they  move  their  squads  about  some- 
how. Their  seniors  are  dotted  about  the 
square,  vigilant  and  helpful  —  here  prompting 
a  rusty  sergeant  instructor,  there  unravelling 
a  squad  which,  in  a  spirited  but  misguided 
endeavour  to  obey  an  impossible  order  from 
Second  Lieutenant  Bobby  Little,  has  wound 
itself  up  into  a  formation  closely  resembling 
the  third  figure  of  the  Lancers. 

Over  there,  by  the  officers'  mess,  stands  the 
Colonel.  He  is  in  uniform,  with  a  streak  of 


6      THE   FIKST   HUKDKED   THOUSAND 

parti-coloured  ribbon  running  across  above 
his  left-hand  breast-pocket.  He  is  pleased  to 
call  himself  a  " dug-out."  A  fortnight  ago  he 
was  fishing  in  the  Garry,  his  fighting  days 
avowedly  behind  him,  and  only  the  Special 
Reserve  between  him  and  embonpoint.  Now 
he  finds  himself  pitchforked  back  into  the 
Active  List,  at  the  head  of  a  battalion  eleven 
hundred  strong. 

He  surveys  the  scene.  Well,  his  officers 
are  all  right.  The  Second  in  Command  has 
seen  almost  as  much  service  as  himself.  Of 
the  four  company  commanders,  two  have  been 
commandeered  while  home  on  leave  from 
India,  and  the  other  two  have  practised  the 
art  of  war  in  company  with  brother  Boer. 
Of  the  rest,  there  are  three  subalterns  from 
the  Second  Battalion  —  left  behind,  to  their 
unspeakable  woe  —  and  four  from  the  O.T.C. 
The  juniors  are  very  junior,  but  keen  as 
mustard. 

But  the  men!  Is  it  possible?  Can  that 
awkward,  shy,  self-conscious  mob,  with 
scarcely  an  old  soldier  in  their  ranks,  be 
pounded,  within  the  space  of  a  few  months, 
into  the  Seventh  (Service)  Battalion  of  the 
Bruce  and  Wallace  Highlanders  —  one  of  the 
most  famous  regiments  in  the  British  Army? 

The  Colonel's  boyish  figure  stiffens. 

"They're  a  rough  crowd,"  he  murmurs, 
"and  a  tough  crowd:  but  they're  a  stout 
crowd.  By  gad!  we'll  make  them  a  credit 
to  the  Old  Regiment  yet!" 


n 

THE   DAILY   GEIND  ^C 

WE  have  been  in  existence  for  more  than 
three  weeks  now,  and  occasionally  we  are 
conscious  of  a  throb  of  real  life.  Squad  drill 
is  almost  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  we  work 
by  platoons  of  over  fifty  men.  To-day  our 
platoon  once  marched,  in  perfect  step,  for 
seven  complete  and  giddy  paces,  before  disin- 
tegrating into  its  usual  formation — namely,  an 
advance  in  irregular  echelon,  by  individuals. 
Four  platoons  form  a  company,  and  each 
platoon  is  (or  should  be)  led  by  a  subaltern, 
acting  under  his  company  commander.  But 
we  are  very  short  of  subalterns  at  present. 
(We  are  equally  short  of  N.C.O.'s;  but  then 
you  can  always  take  a  man  out  of  the  ranks 
and  christen  him  sergeant,  whereas  there  is 
no  available  source  of  Second  Lieutenants 
save  capricious  Whitehall.)  Consequently, 
three  platoons  out  of  four  in  our  company 
are  at  present  commanded  by  N.C.O.'s,  two 
of  whom  appear  to  have  retired  from  active 
service  about  the  time  that  bows  and  arrows 


8       THE   FIKST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

began  to  yield  place  to  the  arquebus,  while 
the  third  has  been  picked  out  of  the  ranks 
simply  because  he  possesses  a  loud  voice  and 
a  cake  of  soap.  None  of  them  has  yet  mas- 
tered the  new  drill  —  it  was  all  changed  at 
the  beginning  of  this  year  —  and  the  majority 
of  the  officers  are  in  no  position  to-  correct 
their  anachronisms. 

Still,  we  are  getting  on.  Number  Three 
Platoon  (which  boasts  a  subaltern)  has  just 
marched  right  round  the  barrack  square, 
without  — 

(1)  Marching  through  another  platoon. 

(2)  Losing  any  part  or  parts  of  itself. 

(3)  Adopting  a  formation  which  brings  it 
face  to  face  with  a  blank  wall,  or  piles  it  up 
in  a  tidal  wave  upon  the  verandah  of  the 
married  quarters. 

They  could  not  have  done  that  a  week  ago. 

But  sta"y,  what  is  this  disturbance  on  the 
extreme  left?  The  command  "  Eight  form  " 
has  been  given,  but  six  files  on  the  outside 
flank  have  ignored  the  suggestion,  and  are 
now  advancing  (in  skirmishing  order)  straight 
for  the  ashbin  outside  the  cookhouse  door, 
looking  piteously  round  over  their  shoulders 
for  some  responsible  person  to  give  them  an 
order  which  will  turn  them  about  and  bring 
them  back  to  the  fold.  Finally  they  are 
rounded  up  by  the  platoon  sergeant,  and  re- 
stored to  the  strength. 

"  What  went  wrong,  Sergeant?  "  inquires 
Second  Lieutenant  Bobby  Little.  He  is  a 


THE   DAILY   GRIND  9 

fresh-faced  youth,  with  an  engaging  smile. 
Three  months  ago  he  was  keeping  wicket  for 
his  school  eleven. 

The  sergeant  comes  briskly  to  attention. 

1 '  The  order  was  not  distinctly  heard  by  the 
men,  sir,"  he  explains,  "  owing  to  the  corporal 
that  passed  it  on  wanting  a  tooth.  Corporal 
Blain,  three  paces  forward  —  march I" 

Corporal  Blain  steps  forward,  and  after  re- 
membering to  slap  the  small  of  his  butt  with 
his  right  hand,  takes  up  his  parable  — 

"  I  was  sittin'  doon  tae  ma  dinner  on  Sab- 
bath, sir,  when  my  front  teeth  met  upon  a 
small  piece  bone  that  was  stickit'  in " 

Further  details  of  this  gastronomic  tragedy 
are  cut  short  by  the  blast  of  a  whistle.  The 
Colonel,  at  the  other  side  of  the  square,  has 
given  the  signal  for  the  end  of  parade.  Simul- 
taneously a  bugle  rings  out  cheerfully  from 
the  direction  of  the  orderly-room.  Break- 
fast, blessed  breakfast,  is  in  sight.  It  is 
nearly  eight,  and  we  have  been  as  busy  as 
bees  since  six. 

At  a  quarter  to  nine  the  battalion  parades 
for  a  route-march.  This,  strange  as  it  may 
appear,  is  a  comparative  rest.  Once  you  have 
got  your  company  safely  decanted  from 
column  of  platoons  into  column  of  route,  your 
labours  are  at  an  end.  All  you  have  to  do  is 
to  march;  and  that  is  no  great  hardship 
when  you  are  as  hard  as  nails,  as  we  are 
fast  becoming.  On  the  march  the  mental 


10     THE   FIRST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

gymnastics  involved  by  the  formation  of  an 
advanced  guard  or  the  disposition  of  a  piquet 
line  are  removed  to  a  safe  distance.  There  is 
no  need  to  wonder  guiltily  whether  you  have 
sent  out  a  connecting-file  between  the  van- 
guard and  the  main-guard,  or  if  you  remem- 
bered to  instruct  your  sentry  groups  as  to 
the  position  of  the  enemy  and  the  extent  of 
their  own  front. 

Second  Lieutenant  Little  heaves  a  contented 
sigh,  and  steps  out  manfully  along  the  dusty 
road.  Behind  him  tramp  his  men.  We  have 
no  pipers  as  yet,  but  melody  is  supplied  by 
6  i  Tipperary, ' '  sung  in  ragged  chorus,  varied 
by  martial  interludes  upon  the  mouth-organ. 
Despise  not  the  mouth-organ.  Ours  has  been 
a  constant  boon.  It  has  kept  sixty  men  in 
step  for  miles  on  end. 

Fortunately  the  weather  is  glorious.  Day 
after  day,  after  a  sharp  and  frosty  dawn,  the 
sun  swings  up  into  a  cloudless  sky;  and  the 
hundred  thousand  troops  that  swarm  like  ants 
upon  the  undulating  plains  of  Hampshire  can 
march,  sit,  lie,  or  sleep  on  hard,  sun-baked 
earth.  A  wet  autumn  would  have  thrown 
our  training  back  months.  The  men,  as  yet, 
possess  nothing  but  the  fatigue  uniforms  they 
stand  up  in,  so  it  is  imperative  to  keep  them 
dry. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp.  "  Tipperary ' '  has 
died  away.  The  owner  of  the  mouth-organ  is 
temporarily  deflated.  Here  is  an  opportunity 
for  individual  enterprise.  It  is  soon  seized. 


THE   DAILY    GEIND  11 

A  husky  soloist  breaks  into  one  of  the  death- 
less ditties  of  the  new  Scottish  Laureate ;  his 
comrades  take  up  the  air  with  ready  response ; 
and  presently  we  are  all  swinging  along  to 
the  strains  of  "I  Love  a  Lassie,"  —  "Boam- 
ing  in  the  Gloaming"  and  "It's  Just  Like 
Being  at  Hame ' '  being  rendered  as  encores. 

Then  presently  come  snatches  of  a  humor- 
ously amorous  nature  —  "Hallo,  Hallo,  Who's 
Your  Lady  Friend?";  "You're  my  Baby"; 
and  the  ungrammatical  "Who  Were  You  With 
Last  Night?"  Another  great  favourite  is  an 
involved  composition  which  always  appears 
to  begin  in  the  middle.  It  deals  severely 
with  the  precocity  of  a  youthful  lover  who 
has  been  detected  wooing  his  lady  in  the 
Park.  Each  verse  ends,  with  enormous 
gusto  — 

"  Hold  your  haand  oot,  you  naughty  boy  \" 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp.  Now  we  are  passing 
through  a  village.  The  inhabitants  line  the 
pavement  and  smile  cheerfully  upon  us  — 
they  are  always  kindly  disposed  toward 
*  *  Scotchies ' '  —  but  the  united  gaze  of  the  rank 
and  file  wanders  instinctively  from  the  pave- 
ment towards  upper  windows  and  kitchen  en- 
trances, where  the  domestic  staff  may  be  dis- 
cerned, bunched  together  and  giggling.  Now 
we  are  out  on  the  road  again,  silent  and  dusty. 
Suddenly,  far  in  the  rear,  a  voice  of  singular 
sweetness  strikes  up  "The  Banks  of  Loch 
Lomond."  Man  after  man  joins  in,  until  the 


12     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

swelling  chorus  runs  from  end  to  end  of  the 
long  column.  Half  the  battalion  hail  from  the 
Loch  Lomond  district,  and  of  the  rest  there 
is  hardly  a  man  who  has  not  indulged,  during 
some  Trades'  Holiday  or  other,  in  "a  pleesure 
trup"  upon  its  historic  but  inexpensive 
waters. 

"  You'll  tak'  the  high  road  and  I'll  tak'  the  low 
road " 

On  we  swing,  full-throated.  An  English 
battalion,  halted  at  a  cross-road  to  let  us  go 
by,  gazes  curiously  upon  us.  ' '  Tipperary ' ' 
they  know,  Harry  Lauder  they  have  heard  of ; 
but  this  song  has  no  meaning  for  them.  It 
is  ours,  ours,  ours.  So  we  march  on.  The 
feet  of  Bobby  Little,  as  he  tramps  at  the  head 
of  his  platoon,  hardly  touch  the  ground.  His 
head  is  in  the  air.  One  day,  he  feels  instinc- 
tively, he  will  hear  that  song  again,  amid 
sterner  surroundings.  When  that  day  comes, 
the  song,  please  God,  for  all  its  sorrowful 
wording,  will  reflect  no  sorrow  from  the 
hearts  of  those  who  sing  it  —  only  courage, 
and  the  joy  of  battle,  and  the  knowledge  of 
victory. 

" And  I'll  be  in  Scotland  before  ye. 

But  me  and  my  true  love  will  never  meet  again 
On  the  bonny,  bonny  baanJcs " 

A  shrill  whistle  sounds  far  ahead.  It  means 
' '  March  at  Attention. "  "  Loch  Lomond ' '  dies 
away  with  uncanny  suddenness  —  discipline  is 


THE   DAILY   GEIND  13 

waxing  stronger  every  day  —  and  tunics  are 
buttoned  and  rifles  unslung.  Three  minutes 
later  we  swing  demurely  on  to  the  barrack- 
square,  across  which  a  pleasant  aroma  of 
stewed  onions  is  wafting,  and  deploy  with 
creditable  precision  into  the  formation  known 
as  "mass."  Then  comes  much  dressing  of 
ranks  and  adjusting  of  distances.  The  Col- 
onel is  very  particular  about  a  clean  finish 
to  any  piece  of  work. 

Presently  the  four  companies  are  aligned: 
the  N.C.O.'s  retire  to  the  supernumerary 
ranks.  The  battalion  stands  rigid,  facing  a 
motionless  figure  upon  horseback.  The  figure 
stirs. 

"Fallout,  the  officers!" 

They  come  trooping,  stand  fast,  and  salute 
—  very  smartly.  We  must  set  an  example  to 
the  men.  Besides,  we  are  hungry  too. 

"Battalion,  slope  arms!    Dis  —  miss!" 

Every  man,  with  one  or  two  incurable  ex- 
ceptions, turns  sharply  to  his  right  and  cheer- 
fully smacks  the  butt  of  his  rifle  with  his 
disengaged  hand.  The  Colonel  gravely  re- 
turns the  salute;  and  we  stream  away,  all 
the  thousand  of  us,  in  the  direction  of  the 
savoury  smell.  Two  o'clock  will  come  round 
all  too  soon,  and  with  it  company  drill  and 
tiresome  musketry  exercises;  but  by  that 
time  we  shall  have  dined,  and  Fate  cannot 
touch  us  for  another  twenty-four  hours. 


m 

V 

GKOWING  PAINS 

WE  have  our  little  worries,  of  course. 

Last  week  we  were  all  vaccinated,  and  we 
did  not  like  it.  Most  of  us  have  "taken" 
very  severely,  which  is  a  sign  that  we  badly 
needed  vaccinating,  but  makes  the  discomfort 
no  easier  to  endure.  It  is  no  joke  handling  a 
rifle  when  your  left  arm  is  swelled  to  the  full 
compass  of  your  sleeve;  and  the  personal 
contact  of  your  neighbour  in  the  ranks  is 
sheer  agony.  However,  officers  are  con- 
siderate, and  the  work  is  made  as  light  as 
possible.  The  faint-hearted  report  themselves 
sick;  but  the  Medical  Officer,  an  unsenti- 
mental man  of  coarse  mental  fibre,  who  was 
on  a  panel  before  he  heard  his  country  calling, 
merely  recommends  them  to  get  well  as  soon 
as  possible,  as  they  are  going  to  be  inoculated 
for  enteric  next  week.  So  we  grouse  —  and 
bear  it. 

There  are  other  rifts  within  the  military 
lute.  At  home  we  are  persons  of  some  conse- 
quence, with  very  definite  notions  about  the 


GROWING   PAINS  15 

dignity  of  labour.  We  have  employers  who 
tremble  at  our  frown ;  we  have  Trades  Union 
officials  who  are  at  constant  pains  to  impress 
upon  us  our  own  omnipotence  in  the  industrial 
world  in  which  we  live.  We  have  at  our  beck 
and  call  a  Eadical  M.P.  who,  in  return  for 
our  vote  and  suffrage,  informs  us  that  we  are 
the  backbone  of  the  nation,  and  that  we  must 
on  no  account  permit  ourselves  to  be  trampled 
upon  by  the  effete  and  tyrannical  upper 
classes.  Finally,  we  are  Scotsmen,  with  all 
a  Scotsman's  curious  reserve  and  contempt 
for  social  airs  and  graces. 

But  in  the  Army  we  appear  to  be  nobody. 
We  are  expected  to  stand  stiffly  at  atten- 
tion when  addressed  by  an  officer;  even  to 
call  him  "sir"  —  an  honour  to  which  our 
previous  employer  has  been  a  stranger.  At 
home,  if  we  happened  to  meet  the  head  of  the 
firm  in  the  street,  and  none  of  our  colleagues 
was  looking,  we  touched  a  cap,  furtively. 
Now,  we  have  no  option  in  the  matter.  We 
are  expected  to  degrade  ourselves  by  meaning- 
less and  humiliating  gestures.  The  N.C.O.'s 
are  almost  as  bad.  If  you  answer  a  sergeant 
as  you  would  a  foreman,  you  are  impertinent ; 
if  you  argue  with  him,  as  all  good  Scotsmen 
must,  you  are  insubordinate ;  if  you  endeavour 
to  drive  a  collective  bargain  with  him,  you  are 
mutinous;  and  you  are  reminded  that  upon 
active  service  mutiny  is  punishable  by  death. 
It  is  all  very  unusual  and  upsetting. 

You  may  not  spit ;  neither  may  you  smoke 


16     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

a  cigarette  in  the  ranks,  nor  keep  the  residue 
thereof  behind  your  ear.  You  may  not  take 
beer  to  bed  with  you.  You  may  not  postpone 
your  shave  till  Saturday:  you  must  shave 
every  day.  You  must  keep  your  buttons, 
accoutrements,  and  rifle  speckless,  and  have 
your  hair  cut  in  a  style  which  is  not  becoming 
to  your  particular  type  of  beauty.  Even  your 
feet  are  not  your  own.  Every  Sunday  morn- 
ing a  young  officer,  whose  leave  has  been 
specially  stopped  for  the  purpose,  comes  round 
the  barrack-rooms  after  church  and  inspects 
your  extremities,  revelling  in  blackened  nails 
and  gloating  over  hammer-toes.  For  all 
practical  purposes,  decides  Private  Muckle- 
wame,  you  might  as  well  be  in  Siberia. 

Still,  one  can  get  used  to  anything.  Our 
lot  is  mitigated,  too,  by  the  knowledge  that 
we  are  all  in  the  same  boat.  The  most 
olympian  N.C.O.  stands  like  a  ramrod  when 
addressing  an  officer,  while  lieutenants  make 
obeisance  to  a  company  commander  as  humbly 
as  any  private.  Even  the  Colonel  was  seen 
one  day  to  salute  an  old  gentleman  who  rode 
on  to  the  parade-ground  during  morning  drill, 
wearing  a  red  band  round  his  hat.  Noting 
this,  we  realise  that  the  Army  is  not,  after 
all,  as  we  first  suspected,  divided  into  two 
classes  —  oppressors  and  oppressed.  We  all 
have  to  "go  through  it." 

Presently  fresh  air,  hard  training,  and 
clean  living  begin  to  weave  their  spell.  In- 


GROWING   PAINS  17 

credulous  at  first,  we  find  ourselves  slowly 
recognising  the  fact  that  it  is  possible  to  treat 
an  officer  deferentially,  or  carry  out  an  order 
smartly,  without  losing  one's  self-respect  as  a 
man  and  a  Trades  Unionist.  The  insidious 
habit  of  cleanliness,  once  acquired,  takes  des- 
potic possession  of  its  victims:  we  find  our- 
selves looking  askance  at  room-mates  who 
have  not  yet  yielded  to  such  predilections. 
The  swimming-bath,  where  once  we  flapped 
unwillingly  and  ingloriously  at  the  shallow 
end,  becomes  quite  a  desirable  resort,  and 
we  look  forward  to  our  weekly  visit  with 
something  approaching  eagerness.  We  begin, 
too,  to  take  our  profession  seriously.  For- 
merly we  regarded  outpost  exercises,  ad- 
vanced guards,  and  the  like,  as  a  rather  fatu- 
ous form  of  play-acting,  designed  to  amuse 
those  officers  who  carry  maps  and  note-books. 
Now  we  begin  to  consider  these  diversions  on 
their  merits,  and  seriously  criticise  Second 
Lieutenant  Little  for  having  last  night  posted 
one  of  his  sentry  groups  upon  the  skyline. 
Thus  is  the  soul  of  a  soldier  born. 

We  are  getting  less  individualistic,  too. 
We  are  beginning  to  think  more  of  our 
regiment  and  less  of  ourselves.  At  first  this 
loyalty  takes  the  form  of  criticising  other  regi- 
ments, because  their  marching  is  slovenly,  or 
their  accoutrements  dirty,  or  —  most  signifi- 
cant sign  of  all  —  their  discipline  is  bad.  We 
are  especially  critical  of  our  own  Eighth  Bat- 
talion, which  is  fully  three  weeks  younger  than 


18     THE    FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

we  are,  and  is  not  in  the  First  Hundred  Thou- 
sand at  all.  In  their  presence  we  are  war-worn 
veterans.  We  express  it  as  our  opinion  that 
the  officers  of  some  of  these  battalions  must 
be  a  poor  lot.  From  this  it  suddenly  comes 
home  to  us  that  our  officers  are  a  good  lot, 
and  we  find  ourselves  taking  a  queer  pride  in 
our  company  commander 's  homely  strictures 
and  severe  sentences  the  morning  after  pay- 
night.  Here  is  another  step  in  the  quicken- 
ing life  of  the  regiment.  Esprit  de  corps  is 
raising  its  head,  class  prejudice  and  dour 
' l  independence ' '  notwithstanding. 

Again,  a  timely  hint  dropped  by  the  Col- 
onel on  battalion  parade  this  morning  has  set 
us  thinking.  We  begin  to  wonder  how  we 
shall  compare  with  the  first-line  regiments 
when  we  find  ourselves  '  '  oot  there. ' '  Silently 
we  resolve  that  when  we,  the  first  of  the 
Service  Battalions,  take  our  place  in  trench 
or  firing  line  alongside  the  Old  Eegiment, 
no  one  shall  be  found  to  draw  unfavourable 
comparisons  between  parent  and  offspring. 
We  intend  to  show  ourselves  chips  of  the  old 
block.  No  one  who  knows  the  Old  Eegiment 
can  ask  more  of  a  young  battalion  than  that. 


IV 

THE   CONTEKSION   OF   PEIVATB   M*  SLATTEKY 

ONE  evening  a  rumour  ran  round  the  barracks. 
Most  barrack  rumours  die  a  natural  death, 
but  this  one  was  confirmed  by  the  fact  that 
next  morning  the  whole  battalion,  instead  of 
performing  the  usual  platoon  exercises,  was 
told  off  for  instruction  in  the  art  of  presenting 
arms.  "A"  Company  discussed  the  portent 
at  breakfast. 

"What  kin'  o'  a  thing  is  a  Beview?"  in- 
quired Private  M'Slattery. 

Private  Mucklewame  explained.  Private 
M'Slattery  was  not  impressed,  and  said  so 
quite  frankly.  In  the  lower  walks  of  the  in- 
dustrial world  Eoyalty  is  too  often  a  mere 
name.  Personal  enthusiasm  for  a  Sovereign 
whom  they  have  never  seen,  and  who  in  their 
minds  is  inextricably  mixed  up  with  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  capitalism,  and  the 
police,  is  impossible  to  individuals  of  the 
stamp  of  Private  M'Slattery.  To  such,  Eoy- 
alty is  simply  the  head  and  corner-stone 


20     THE   PIEST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 

of  a  legal  system  which  officiously  prevents  a 
man  from  being  drunk  and  disorderly,  and 
the  British  Empire  an  expensive  luxury  for 
which  the  working  man  pays  while  the  idle 
rich  draw  the  profits. 

If  M'Slattery's  opinion  of  the  Civil  Code 
was  low,  his  opinion  of  Military  Law  was  at 
zero.  In  his  previous  existence  in  his  native 
Clydebank,  when  weary  of  rivet-heating  and 
desirous  of  change  and  rest,  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  take  a  day  off  and  become 
pleasantly  intoxicated,  being  comfortably  able 
to  afford  the  loss  of  pay  involved  by  his  ab- 
sence. On  these  occasions  he  was  accustomed 
to  sleep  off  his  potations  in  some  public  place 
—  usually  upon  the  pavement  outside  his  last 
house  of  call  —  and  it  was  his  boast  that  so 
long  as  nobody  interfered  with  him  he  inter- 
fered with  nobody.  To  this  attitude  the 
tolerant  police  force  of  Clydebank  assented, 
having  their  hands  full  enough,  as  a  rule, 
in  dealing  with  more  militant  forms  of  alco- 
holism. But  Private  M'Slattery,  No.  3891, 
soon  realised  that  he  and  Mr.  Matthew  M'  Slat- 
tery,  rivet-heater  and  respected  citizen  of 
Clydebank,  had  nothing  in  common.  Only 
last  week,  feeling  pleasantly  fatigued  after 
five  days  of  arduous  military  training,  he  had 
followed  the  invariable  practice  of  his  civil 
life,  and  taken  a  day  off.  The  result  had 
fairly  staggered  him.  In  the  orderly-room 
upon  Monday  morning  he  was  charged 
with  — 


PEIVATE   M'SLATTERY'S    CONVERSION     21 

(1)  Being  absent  from  Parade  at  9  A.M.  on 

Saturday. 

(2)  Being  absent  from  Parade  at  2  P.M.  on 

Saturday. 

(3)  Being  absent  from  Tattoo  at  9.30  P.M.  on 

Saturday. 

(4)  Being  drunk  in  High  Street  about  9.40 

P.M.  on  Saturday. 

(5)  Striking  a  Non-Commissioned  Officer. 

(6)  Attempting  to  escape  from  Ms  escort. 

(7)  Destroying  Government  property.  (Three 

panes  of  glass  in  the  guard-room.) 

Private  M'Slattery,  asked  for  an  explana- 
tion, had  pointed  out  that  if  he  had  been 
treated  as  per  his  working  arrangement  with 
the  police  at  Clydebank,  there  would  have 
been  no  trouble  whatever.  As  for  his  day  off, 
he  was  willing  to  forgo  his  day's  pay  and  call 
the  thing  square.  However,  a  hidebound  C.O. 
had  fined  him  five  shillings  and  sentenced 
him  to  seven  days'  C.B.  Consequently  he 
was  in  no  mood  for  Royal  Reviews.  He  stated 
his  opinions  upon  the  subject  in  a  loud  voice 
and  at  some  length.  No  one  contradicted 
him,  for  he  possessed  the  straightest  left  in 
the  company;  and  no  dog  barked  even  when 
M'Slattery  said  that  black  was  white. 

"I  wunner  ye  jined  the  Airmy  at  all, 
M'Slattery,"  observed  one  bold  spirit,  when 
the  orator  paused  for  breath. 

' i  I  wunner  myself, ' '  said  W  Slattery  simply. 
"If  I  had  kent  all  aboot  this  ' attention,'  and 


22     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

'stan'-at-ease,'  and  needin'  tae  luft  your  hand 
tae  your  bunnet  whenever  you  saw  yin  o '  they 
gentry-pups  of  officers  goin'  by,  —  dagont  if 
I'd  hae  done  it,  Germans  or  no !  (But  I  had  a 
dram  in  me  at  the  time.)  I'm  weel  kent  in 
Clydebank,  and  they'll  tell  you  there  that  I'm 
no  the  man  to  be  wastin'  my  time  presenting 
airms  tae  kings  or  any  other  bodies." 

However,  at  the  appointed  hour  M'  Slattery, 
in  the  front  rank  of  A  Company,  stood  to  at- 
tention because  he  had  to,  and  presented  arms 
very  creditably.  He  now  cherished  a  fresh 
grievance,  for  he  objected  upon  principle  to 
have  to  present  arms  to  a  motor-car  stand- 
ing two  hundred  yards  away  upon  his  right 
front. 

"Wull  we  be  gettin'  hame  to  our  dinners 
now?"  he  inquired  gruffly  of  his  neighbour. 

" Maybe  he'll  tak'  a  closer  look  at  us,"  sug- 
gested an  optimist  in  the  rear  rank.  "He 
micht  walk  doon  the  line. ' ' 

' '  Walk  ?  No  him ! "  replied  Private  M<  Slat- 
tery. ' '  He  '11  be  awa '  hame  in  the  motor.  Hae 
ony  o '  you  billies  gotten  a  fag  I ' ' 

There  was  a  smothered  laugh.  The  officers 
of  the  battalion  were  standing  rigidly  at  at- 
tention in  front  of  A  Company.  One  of  these 
turned  his  head  sharply. 

"No  talking  in  the  ranks  there!"  he  said. 
i '  Sergeant,  take  that  man 's  name. ' ' 

Private  M'  Slattery,  rumbling  mutiny,  sub- 
sided, and  devoted  his  attention  to  the  move- 
ments of  the  Eoyal  motor-car. 


PEIVATE    M'SLATTERY'S    CONVERSION      23 

Then  the  miracle  happened. 

The  great  car  rolled  smoothly  from  the 
saluting-base,  over  the  undulating  turf,  and 
came  to  a  standstill  on  the  extreme  right  of 
the  line,  half  a  mile  away.  There  descended 
a  slight  figure  in  khaki.  It  was  the  King  — 
the  King  whom  Private  M'  Slattery  had  never 
seen.  Another  figure  followed,  and  another. 

"Herself  iss  there  too!"  whinnied  an  ex- 
cited Highlander  on  M* Slattery ?s  right.  "And 
the  young  leddy!  Pless  me,  they  are  all  for 
walking  town  the  line  on  their  feet.  And  the 
sun  so  hot  in  the  sky!  We  shall  see  them 
close!" 

Private  M*  Slattery  gave  a  contemptuous 
sniff. 

The  excited  battalion  was  called  to  a  sense 
of  duty  by  the  voice  of  authority.  Once  more 
the  long  lines  stood  stiff  and  rigid  —  waiting, 
waiting,  for  their  brief  glimpse.  It  was  a 
long  time  coming,  for  they  were  posted  on 
the  extreme  left. 

Suddenly  a  strangled  voice  was  uplifted  — 

"In  God's  name,  what  for  can  they  no  come 
tae  us?  Never  heed  the  others!" 

Yet  Private  M<  Slattery  was  quite  unaware 
that  he  had  spoken. 

At  last  the  little  procession  arrived.  There 
was  a  handshake  for  the  Colonel,  and  a  word 
with  two  or  three  of  the  officers ;  then  a  quick 
scrutiny  of  the  rank  and  file.  For  a  moment 
—  yea,  more  than  a  moment  — keen  Eoyal  eyes 
rested  upon  Private  M*  Slattery,  standing  like 


24     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

a  graven  image,  with  Ms  great  chest  straining 
the  buttons  of  his  tunic. 

Then  a  voice  said,  apparently  in  M'Slat- 
tery's  ear  — 

"A  magnificent  body  of  men,  Colonel.  I 
congratulate  you." 

A  minute  later  M'Slattery  was  aroused 
from  his  trance  by  the  sound  of  the  Colonel's 
ringing  voice  — 

"  Highlanders,  three  cheers  for  His  Majesty 
the  King !" 

M'Slattery  led  the  whole  Battalion,  his 
glengarry  high  in  the  air. 

Suddenly  his  eye  fell  upon  Private  Muckle- 
wame,  blindly  and  woodenly  yelling  himself 
hoarse. 

In  three  strides  M'Slattery  was  standing 
face  to  face  with  the  unconscious  criminal. 

"Yous  low,  lousy  puddock,"  he  roared  — 
"tak'  off  your  bonnet!"  He  saved  Muckle- 
wame  the  trouble  of  complying,  and  strode 
back  to  his  place  in  the  ranks. 

"Yin  mair,  chaps,"  he  shouted  —  "for  the 
young  leddy!"  * 

And  yet  there  are  people  who  tell  us  that 
the  formula,  O.H.M.S.,  is  a  mere  relic  of 
antiquity. 


"CBIME" 

" BEING  in  Private  Dunshie,  Sergeant-Major," 
says  the  Company  Commander. 

The  Sergeant-Major  throws  open  the  door, 
and  barks  — 

"Private  Dunshie 's  escort!" 

The  order  is  repeated  fortissimo  by  some 
one  ontside.  There  is  a  clatter  of  ammuni- 
tion boots  getting  into  step,  and  a  solemn 
procession  of  four  files  into  the  room.  The 
leader  thereof  is  a  stumpy  but  enormously 
important-looking  private.  He  is  the  escort. 
Number  two  is  the  prisoner.  Numbers  three 
and  four  are  the  accuser  —  counsel  for  the 
Crown,  as  it  were  —  and  a  witness.  The  pro- 
cession reaches  the  table  at  which  the  Captain 
is  sitting.  Beside  him  is  a  young  officer,  one 
Bobby  Little,  who  is  present  for  "instruc- 
tional" purposes. 

"Mark  time!"  commands  the  Sergeant- 
Major.  "Halt!  Eight  turn!" 

This  evolution  brings  the  accused  face  to 
face  with  his  judge.  He  has  been  deprived 


26     THE    FIEST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 

of  his  cap,  and  of  everything  else  "  which 
may  be  employed  as,  or  contain,  a  missile. " 
(They  think  of  everything  in  the  King's 
Begulations.) 

4 ' What  is  this  man's  crime,  Sergeant- 
Major?"  inquires  the  Captain. 

"On  this  sheet,  sir,"  replies  the  Sergeant- 
Ma  j  or.  .  .  . 

By  a  "crime"  the  ordinary  civilian  means 
something  worth  recording  in  a  special  edition 
of  the  evening  papers  —  something  with  a 
meat-chopper  in  it.  Others,  more  catholic  in 
their  views,  will  tell  you  that  it  is  a  crime  to 
inflict  corporal  punishment  on  any  human 
being;  or  to  permit  performing  animals  to 
appear  upon  the  stage ;  or  to  subsist  upon  any 
food  but  nuts.  Others,  of  still  finer  clay,  will 
classify  such  things  as  Futurism,  The  Tango, 
Dickeys,  and  the  Albert  Memorial  as  crimes. 
The  point  to  note  is,  that  in  the  eyes  of  all 
these  persons  each  of  these  things  is  a  sin  of 
the  worst  possible  degree.  That  being  so, 
they  designate  it  a  "crime."  It  is  the  strong- 
est term  they  can  employ. 

But  in  the  Army,  ' i  crime ' '  is  capable  of  in- 
finite shades  of  intensity.  It  simply  means 
"misdemeanour,"  and  may  range  from  being 
unshaven  on  parade,  or  making  a  frivolous 
complaint  about  the  potatoes  at  dinner,  to 
irrevocably  perforating  your  rival  in  love 
with  a  bayonet.  So  let  party  politicians, 
when  they  discourse  vaguely  to  their  con- 
stituents about  "the  prevalence  of  crime  in 


CRIME  27 

the  Army  under  the  present  effete  and  un- 
democratic system/'  walk  warily. 

Every  private  in  the  Army  possesses  what 
is  called  a  conduct-sheet,  and  upon  this  his 
crimes  are  recorded.  To  be  precise,  he  has 
two  such  sheets.  One  is  called  his  Company 
sheet,  and  the  other  his  Begimental  sheet. 
His  Company  sheet  contains  a  record  of  every 
misdeed  for  which  he  has  been  brought  before 
his  Company  Commander.  His  Eegimental 
sheet  is  a  more  select  document,  and  contains 
only  the  more  noteworthy  of  his  achievements 
—  crimes  so  interesting  that  they  have  to  be 
communicated  to  the  Commanding  Officer. 

However,  this  morning  we  are  concerned 
only  with  Company  conduct-sheets.  It  is 
7.30  A.M.,  and  the  Company  Commander  is 
sitting  in  judgment,  with  a  little  pile  of  yellow 
Army  forms  before  him.  He  picks  up  the 
first  of  these,  and  reads  — 

"Private  DunsJiie.  While  on  active  service, 
refusing  to  obey  an  order.  Lance-Corporal 
Ness!" 

The  figure  upon  the  prisoner's  right  sud- 
denly becomes  animated.  Lance-Corporal 
Ness,  taking  a  deep  breath,  and  fixing  his 
eyes  resolutely  on  the  whitewashed  wall  above 
the  Captain's  head,  recites  — 

' '  Sirr,  at  four  P.M.  on  the  f uf th  unst.  I  was 
in  charge  of  a  party  told  off  for  tae  scrub  the 
floor  of  Boom  Nummer  Seeventeen.  I  or- 
dered the  prisoner  tae  scrub.  He  refused. 
I  warned  him.  He  again  refused." 


28     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Click !  Lance-Corporal  Ness  has  run  down. 
He  has  just  managed  the  sentence  in  a 
breath. 

i '  Corporal  Mackay ! ' ' 

The  figure  upon  Lance-Corporal  Ness's 
right  stiffens,  and  inflates  itself. 

"Sirr,  on  the  fufth  unst.  I  was  Orderly 
Sergeant.  At  aboot  four-thirrty  P.M.,  Lance- 
Corporal  Ness  reported  this  man  tae  me  for  re- 
fusing for  tae  obey  an  order.  I  confined  him. ' ' 

The  Captain  turns  to  the  prisoner. 

"What  have  you  to  say,  Private  Dun- 
shier' 

Private  Dunshie,  it  appears,  has  a  good 
deal  to  say. 

"I  jined  the  Airmy  for  tae  fight  they  Ger- 
mans, and  no  for  tae  be  learned  tae  scrub 
floors " 

"Sirr !"  suggests  the  Sergeant-Major  in  his 
ear. 

"Sirr,"  amends  Private  Dunshie  reluc- 
tantly. "I  was  no  in  the  habit  of  scrubbin' 
the  floor  myseP  where  I  stay  in  Glesca';  and 
ma  wife  would  be  affronted ' 

But  the  Captain  looks  up.  He  has  heard 
enough. 

"Look  here,  Dunshie,"  he  says.  "Glad  to 
hear  you  want  to  fight  the  Germans.  So  do 
I.  So  do  we  all.  All  the  same,  we've  got  a 
lot  of  dull  jobs  to  do  first."  (Captain  Blaikie 
has  the  reputation  of  being  the  most  mono- 
syllabic man  in  the  British  Army.)  "Coals, 
and  floors,  and  fatigues  like  that:  they  are 


CEIME  29 

your  job.  I  have  mine  too.  Kept  me  up  till 
two  this  morning.  But  the  point  is  this.  You 
have  refused  to  obey  an  order.  Very  seri- 
ous, that.  Most  serious  crime  a  soldier  can 
commit.  If  you  start  arguing  now  about 
small  things,  where  will  you  be  when  the  big 
orders  come  along  —  eh?  Must  learn  to  obey. 
Soldier  now,  whatever  you  were  a  month  ago. 
So  obey  all  orders  like  a  shot.  Watch  me 
next  time  I  get  one.  No  disgrace,  you  know ! 
Ought  to  be  a  soldier's  pride,  and  all  that. 
See?" 

"  Yes  —  sirr,"  replies  Private  Dunshie,  with 
less  truculence. 

The  Captain  glances  down  at  the  paper 
before  him. 

"  First  time  you  have  come  before  me. 
Admonished!" 

'  *  Eight  turn !  Quick  march ! ' '  thunders  the 
Sergeant-Major. 

The  procession  clumps  out  of  the  room. 
The  Captain  turns  to  his  disciple. 

4 'That's  my  homely  and  paternal  tap,"  he 
observes.  "For  first  offenders  only.  That 
chap's  all  right.  Soon  find  out  it's  no  good 
fussing  about  your  rights  as  a  true-born 
British  elector  in  the  Army.  Sergeant- 
Major!" 

"Sirr?" 

"Private  McNulty!" 

After  the  usual  formalities,  enter  Private 
McNulty  and  escort.  Private  McNulty  is  a 
small  scared-looking  man  with  a  dirty  face. 


30     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED    THOUSAND 

"Private  McNulty,  sirr!"  announces  the 
Sergeant-Major  to  the  Company  Commander, 
with  the  air  of  a  popular  lecturer  on  entom- 
ology placing  a  fresh  insect  under  the  micro- 
scope. 

Captain  Blaikie  addresses  the  shivering 
culprit  — 

"Private  McNulty;  charged  with  destroy- 
ing Government  property.  Corporal  Mather ! ' ' 

Corporal  Mather  clears  his  throat,  and 
assuming  the  wooden  expression  and  fish- 
like  gaze  common  to  all  public  speakers 
who  have  learned  their  oration  by  heart, 
begins  — 

"Sirr,  on  the  night  of  the  sixth  inst.  I  was 
Orderly  Sergeant.  Going  round  the  pris- 
oner's room  about  the  hour  of  nine-thirty  I 
noticed  that  his  three  biscuits  had  been  cut 
and  slashed,  appariently  with  a  knife  or  other 
instrument." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Sirr,  I  inquired  of  the  men  in  the  room 
who  was  it  had  gone  for  to  do  this.  Sirr, 
they  said  it  was  the  prisoner. ' ' 

Two  witnesses  are  called.  Both  certify, 
casting  grieved  and  virtuous  glances  at  the 
prisoner,  that  this  outrage  upon  the  property 
of  His  Majesty  was  the  work  of  Private 
McNulty. 

To  the  unsophisticated  Bobby  Little  this 
charge  appears  rather  a  frivolous  one.  If 
you  may  not  cut  or  slash  a  biscuit,  what 
are  you  to  do  with  it?  Swallow  it  whole? 


CEIME  31 

"Private  McNulty?"  queries  the  Captain. 

Private  McNulty,  in  a  voice  which  is  shrill 
with  righteous  indignation,  gives  the  some- 
what unexpected  answer  — 

"Sirr,  I  plead  guilty  1" 

1  *  Guilty  —  eh  I    You  did  it,  then ? ' ' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Why?" 

This  is  what  Private  McNulty  is  waiting 
for. 

"The  men  in  that  room,  sirr,"  he  announces 
indignantly,  "appear  tae  look  on  me  as  a  sort 
of  body  that  can  be  treated  onyways.  They 
go  for  tae  aggravate  me.  I  was  sittin'  on  my 
bed,  with  my  knife  in  my  hand,  cutting  a 
piece  bacca  and  interfering  with  naebody, 
when  they  all  commenced  tae  fling  biscuits 
at  me.  I  was  keepin'  them  off  as  weel  as 
I  could;  but  havin'  a  knife  in  my  hand,  I'll 
no  deny  but  what  I  gave  twa  three  of  them 
a  bit  cut." 

"Is  this  true?"  asks  the  Captain  of  the 
first  witness,  curtly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  saw  the  men  throwing  biscuits  at  the 
prisoner?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"He  was  daen'  it  himseP!"  proclaims  Pri- 
vate McNulty. 

"This  true?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  Captain  addresses  the  other  witness. 

"You  doing  it  too?" 


32     THE   FIEST   HUNDBED   THOUSAND 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  Captain  turns  again  to  the  prisoner. 

"Why  didn't  you  lodge  a  complaint?" 
(The  schoolboy  code  does  not  obtain  in  the 
Army.) 

"I  did,  sir.  I  tellt" —  indicating  Corporal 
Mather  with  an  elbow  —  "this  genelman 
here." 

Corporal  Mather  cannot  help  it.  He  swells 
perceptibly.  But  swift  puncture  awaits 
him. 

"Corporal  Mather,  why  didn't  you  mention 
this?" 

"I  didna  think  it  affected  the  crime,  sir." 

"Not  your  business  to  think.  Only  to 
make  a  straightforward  charge.  Be  very 
careful  in  future.  You  other  two"  —  the 
witnesses  come  guiltily  to  attention  —  "I 
shall  talk  to  your  platoon  sergeant  about 
you.  Not  going  to  have  Government  property 
knocked  about!" 

Bobby  Little's  eyebrows,  willy-nilly,  have 
been  steadily  rising  during  the  last  five  min- 
utes. He  knows  the  meaning  of  red  tape 
now! 

Then  comes  sentence. 

"Private  McNulty,  you  have  pleaded  guilty 
to  a  charge  of  destroying  Government  prop- 
erty, so  you  go  before  the  Commanding  Offi- 
cer. Don 't  suppose  you  '11  be  punished,  beyond 
paying  for  the  damage." 

"Eight  turn!  Quick  march!"  chants  the 
Sergeant-Major. 


CRIME  33. 

The  downtrodden  McNulty  disappears,  with 
his  traducers.  But  Bobby  Little 's  eyebrows 
have  not  been  altogether  thrown  away  upon 
his  Company  Commander. 

"Got  the  biscuits  here,  Sergeant-Major?" 

"Yes,  sirr." 

"Show  them." 

The  Sergeant-Major  dives  into  a  pile  of 
brown  blankets,  and  presently  extracts  three 
small  brown  mattresses,  each  two  feet  square. 
These  appear  to  have  been  stabbed  in  several 
places  with  a  knife. 

Captain  Blaikie's  eyes  twinkle,  and  he 
chuckles  to  his  now  scarlet-faced  junior  — 

"More  biscuits  in  heaven  and  earth  than 
ever  came  out  of  Huntley  and  Palmer's,  my 
son!  Private  Bobb!" 

Presently  Private  Eobb  stands  at  the  table. 
He  is  a  fresh-faced,  well-set-up  youth,  with  a 
slightly  receding  chin  and  a  most  dejected 
manner. 

"Private  Robb,"  reads  the  Captain. 
"While  on  active  service,  drunk  and  singing 
in  Wellington  Street  about  nine  p.m.  on  Sat- 
urday, the  sixth.  Sergeant  Garrett!" 

The  proceedings  follow  their  usual  course, 
except  that  in  this  case  some  of  the  evidence 
is  "documentary"  —  put  in  in  the  form  of  a 
report  from  the  sergeant  of  the  Military 
Police  who  escorted  the  melodious  Bobb  home 
to  bed. 

The  Captain  addresses  the  prisoner. 

"Private   Bobb,  this  is  the   second  time. 


34     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Sorry  —  very  sorry.  In  all  other  ways  you 
are  doing  well.  Very  keen  and  promising 
soldier.  Why  is  it  —  eh  ? ' ' 

The  contrite  Eobb  hangs  his  head.  His 
judge  continues  — 

"I'll  tell  you.  You  haven't  found  out  yet 
how  much  you  can  hold.  That  it?" 

The  prisoner  nods  assent. 

"Well  — find  out!  See?  It's  one  of  the 
first  things  a  young  man  ought  to  learn.  Very 
valuable  piece  of  information.  I  know  my- 
self, so  I'm  safe.  Want  you  to  do  the  same. 
Every  man  has  a  different  limit.  What  did 
you  have  on  Saturday?" 

Private  Eobb  reflects. 

"Five  pints,  sirr,"  he  announces. 

"Well,  next  time  try  three,  and  then  you 
won't  go  serenading  policemen.  As  it  is, 
you  will  have  to  go  before  the  Commanding 
Officer  and  get  punished.  Want  to  go  to  the 
front,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  sirr."  Private  Eobb's  dismal  fea- 
tures flush. 

"Well,  mind  this.  We  all  want  to  go, 
but  we  can't  go  till  every  man  in  the  battalion 
is  efficient.  You  want  to  be  the  man  who 
kept  the  rest  from  going  to  the  front  — 
eh?" 

"No,  sirr,  I  do  not." 

"All  right,  then.  Next  Saturday  night 
say  to  yourself:  ' Another  pint,  and  I  keep 
the  Battalion  back!'  If  you  do  that,  you'll 
come  back  to  barracks  sober,  like  a  decent 


CEIME  35 

chap.  That'll  do.  Don't  salute  with  your 
cap  off.  Next  man,  Sergeant-Major!" 

"Good  boy,  that,"  remarks  the  Captain  to 
Bobby  Little,  as  the  contrite  Eobb  is  removed. 
"Keen  as  mustard.  But  his  high-water  mark 
for  beer  is  somewhere  in  his  boots.  All  right, 
now  I've  scared  him." 

"Last  prisoner,  sirr,"  announces  the  Ser- 
geant-Ma j  or. 

"Glad  to  hear  it.  H'm!  Private  M<  Queen 
again!" 

Private  M*  Queen  is  an  unpleasant-looking 
creature,  with  a  drooping  red  moustache  and 
a  cheese-coloured  complexion.  His  misdeeds 
are  recited.  Having  been  punished  for  mis- 
conduct early  in  the  week,  he  has  piled  Pelion 
on  Ossa  by  appearing  fighting  drunk  at  de- 
faulters' parade.  From  all  accounts  he  has 
livened  up  that  usually  decorous  assemblage 
considerably. 

After  the  corroborative  evidence,  the  Cap- 
tain asks  his  usual  question  of  the  prisoner  — 

"Anything  to  say?" 

' '  No, ' '  growls  Private  M*  Queen. 

The  Captain  takes  up  the  prisoner's  con- 
duct-sheet, reads  it  through,  and  folds  it  up 
deliberately. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  the  Commanding  Officer 
to  discharge  you,"  he  says ;  and  there  is  noth- 
ing homely  or  paternal  in  his  speech  now. 
"Can't  make  out  why  men  like  you  join  the 
Army  —  especially  this  Army.  Been  a  nui- 
sance ever  since  you  came  here.  Drunk  — 


36     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

beastly  drunk  —  four  times  in  three  weeks. 
Always  dirty  and  insubordinate.  Always  try- 
ing to  stir  up  trouble  among  the  young  sol- 
diers. Been  in  the  army  before,  have  n't  you? ' ' 

"No." 

"That's  not  true.  Can  always  tell  an  old 
soldier  on  parade.  Fact  is,  you  have  either 
deserted  or  been  discharged  as  incorrigible. 
Going  to  be  discharged  as  incorrigible  again. 
Keeping  the  regiment  back,  that's  why:  that's 
a  real  crime.  Go  home,  and  explain  that  you 
were  turned  out  of  the  King's  Army  because 
you  weren't  worthy  of  the  honour  of  staying 
in.  When  decent  men  see  that  people  like 
you  have  no  place  in  this  regiment,  perhaps 
they  will  see  that  this  regiment  is  just  the 
place  for  them.  Take  him  away. ' ' 

Private  M' Queen  shambles  out  of  the  room 
for  the  last  time  in  his  life.  Captain  Blaikie, 
a  little  exhausted  by  his  own  unusual  loqua- 
city, turns  to  Bobby  Little  with  a  contented 
sigh. 

"That's  the  last  of  the  shysters,"  he  says. 
"Been  weeding  them  out  for  six  weeks.  Now 
I  have  got  rid  of  that  nobleman  I  can  look  the 
rest  of  the  Company  in  the  face.  kCome  to 
breakfast!" 


VI 

THE  LAWS  OF  THE  MEDES  AND  PEESIANS 

ONE'S  first  days  as  a  newly- joined  subaltern 
are  very  like  one's  first  days  at  school.  The 
feeling  is  just  the  same.  There  is  the  same 
natural  shyness,  the  same  reverence  for  people 
who  afterwards  turn  out  to  be  of  no  conse- 
quence whatsoever,  and  the  same  fear  of 
transgressing  the  Laws  of  the  Medes  and  Per- 
sians —  regimental  traditions  and  conventions 
—  which  alter  not. 

Dress,  for  instance.  "Does  one  wear  a 
sword  on  parade?"  asks  the  tyro  of  himself 
his  first  morning.  "I'll  put  it  on,  and  chance 
it."  He  invests  himself  in  a  monstrous  clay- 
more and  steps  on  to  the  barrack  square.  Not 
an  officer  in  sight  is  carrying  anything  more 
lethal  than  a  light  cane.  There  is  just  time 
to  scuttle  back  to  quarters  and  disarm. 

Again,  where  should  one  sit  at  meal-times? 
We  had  supposed  that  the  C.O.  would  be  en- 
throned at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  a  major 
sitting  on  his  right  and  left,  like  Cherubim 
and  Seraphim ;  while  the  rest  disposed  them- 


38     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

selves  in  a  descending  scale  of  greatness  until 
it  came  down  to  persons  like  ourselves  at  the 
very  foot.  But  the  C.O.  has  a  disconcerting 
habit  of  sitting  absolutely  anywhere.  He 
appears  to  be  just  as  happy  between  two  Sec- 
ond Lieutenants  as  between  Cherubim  and 
Seraphim.  Again,  we  note  that  at  breakfast 
each  officer  upon  entering  sits  down  and 
shouts  loudly,  to  a  being  concealed  behind  a 
screen,  for  food,  which  is  speedily  forthcom- 
ing. Are  we  entitled  to  clamour  in  this  per- 
emptory fashion  too?  Or  should  we  creep 
round  behind  the  screen  and  take  what  we  can 
get?  Or  should  we  sit  still,  and  wait  till  we 
are  served?  We  try  the  last  expedient  first, 
and  get  nothing.  Then  we  try  the  second,  and 
are  speedily  convinced,  by  the  demeanour  of 
the  gentleman  behind  the  screen,  that  we  have 
committed  the  worst  error  of  which  we  have 
yet  been  guilty. 

There  are  other  problems  —  saluting,  for 
instance.  On  the  parade  ground  this  is  a 
simple  matter  enough;  for  there  the  golden 
rule  appears  to  be  —  When  in  doubt,  salute! 
The  Colonel  calls  up  his  four  Company  Com- 
manders. They  salute.  He  instructs  them 
to  carry  on  this  morning  with  coal  fatigues 
and  floor-scrubbing.  The  Company  Comman- 
ders salute,  and  retire  to  their  Companies,  and 
call  up  their  subalterns,  who  salute.  They 
instruct  these  to  carry  on  this  morning  with 
coal  fatigues  and  floor-scrubbing.  The  sixteen 
subalterns  salute,  and  retire  to  their  platoons. 


LAWS   OF  THE  MEDES  AND   PEBSIANS    39 

Here  they  call  up  their  Platoon  Sergeants, 
who  salute.  They  instruct  these  to  carry  on 
this  morning  with  coal  fatigues  and  floor- 
scrubbing.  The  Platoon  Sergeants  salute, 
and  issue  commands  to  the  rank  and  file.  The 
rank  and  file,  having  no  instructions  to  salute 
sergeants,  are  compelled,  as  a  last  resort,  to 
carry  on  with  the  coal  fatigues  and  floor- 
scrubbing  themselves.  You  see,  on  parade 
saluting  is  simplicity  itself. 

But  we  are  not  always  on  parade ;  and  then 
more  subtle  problems  arise.  Some  of  those 
were  discussed  one  day  by  four  junior  officers, 
who  sat  upon  a  damp  and  slippery  bank  by  a 
muddy  roadside  during  a  "fall-out"  in  a 
route-march.  The  four  ( ' '  reading  from  left  to 
right,"  as  they  say  in  high  journalistic  so- 
ciety) were  Second  Lieutenant  Little,  Second 
Lieutenant  Waddell,  Second  Lieutenant  Cock- 
erell,  and  Lieutenant  Struthers,  surnamed 
6 '  Highbrow. ' '  Bobby  we  know.  Waddell  was 
a  slow-moving  but  pertinacious  student  of  the 
science  of  war  from  the  kingdom  of  Fife. 
Cockerell  came  straight  from  a  crack  public- 
school  corps,  where  he  had  been  a  cadet  officer ; 
so  nothing  in  the  heaven  above  or  the  earth  be- 
neath was  hid  from  him.  Struthers  owed  his 
superior  rank  to  the  fact  that  in  the  far  back 
ages,  before  the  days  of  the  O.T.C.,  he  had  held 
a  commission  in  a  University  Corps.  He  was 
a  scholar  of  his  College,  and  was  an  expert  in 
the  art  of  accumulating  masses  of  knowledge 
in  quick  time  for  examination  purposes.  He 


40    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 


knew  all  the  little  red  manuals  by  heart,  was 
an  infallible  authority  on  buttons  and  badges, 
and  would  dip  into  the  King's  Eegulations 
or  the  Field  Service  Pocket-book  as  another 
man  might  dip  into  the  "Sporting  Times." 
Strange  to  say,  he  was  not  very  good  at  drill- 
ing a  platoon.  We  all  know  him. 

"What  do  you  do  when  you  are  leading  a 
party  along  a  road  and  meet  a  Staff  Officer?" 
asked  Bobby  Little. 

"Make  a  point,"  replied  Cockerell  patron- 
isingly,  "of  saluting  all  persons  wearing  red 
bands  round  their  hats.  They  may  not  be 
entitled  to  it,  but  it  tickles  their  ribs  and  gets 
you  the  reputation  of  being  an  intelligent 
young  officer." 

"But  I  say,"  announced  Waddell  plains 
tively,  "/  saluted  a  man  with  a  red  hat  the 
other  day,  and  he  turned  out  to  be  a  Military 
Policeman!" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  announced  the  pun- 
dit Struthers,  after  the  laughter  had  subsided, 
"you  need  not  salute  anybody.  No  compli- 
ments are  paid  on  active  service,  and  we  are 
on  active  service  now." 

"Yes,  but  suppose  some  one  salutes  you?" 
objected  the  conscientious  Bobby  Little. 
"You  must  salute  back  again,  and  some- 
times you  don't  know  how  to  do  it.  The 
other  day  I  was  bringing  the  company  back 
from  the  ranges  and  we  met  a  company  from 
another  battalion  —  the  Mid  Mudshires,  I 
think.  Before  I  knew  where  I  was  the  fel- 


LAWS  OF  THE  MEDES  AND  PEESIANS    41 

low  in  charge  called  them  to  attention  and 
then  gave  'Eyes  right!' 

"What  did  you  do?"  asked  Struthers 
anxiously. 

"I  hadn't  time  to  do  anything  except  grin, 
and  say,  'Good  morning!'  "  confessed  Bobby 
Little. 

"You  were  perfectly  right,"  announced 
Struthers,  and  Cockerel!  murmured  assent. 

"Are  you  sure?"  persisted  Bobby  Little. 
"As  I  passed  the  tail  of  their  company  one 
of  their  subs  turned  to  another  and  said  quite 
loud,  'MyTrod,  what  swine!'  " 

"Showed  his  rotten  ignorance,"  commented 
Cockerell. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Waddell,  whose 
thoughts  were  never  disturbed  by  conver- 
sation around  him,  broke  in  with  a  ques- 
tion. 

"What  does  a  Tommy  do,"  he  inquired, 
"if  he  meets  an  officer  wheeling  a  wheel- 
barrow?" 

"Who  is  wheeling  the  barrow,"  inquired 
the  meticulous  Struthers  —  "the  officer  or  the 
Tommy?" 

"The  Tommy,  of  course!"  replied  Waddell 
in  quite  a  shocked  voice.  ' '  What  is  he  to  do  f 
If  he  tries  to  salute  he  will  upset  the  barrow, 
you  know." 

"He  turns  his  head  sharply  towards  the 
officer  for  six  paces, ' '  explained  the  ever-ready 
Struthers.  "When  a  soldier  is  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  salute  in  the  ordinary  way " 


42    THE   FIEST   HUKDKED  THOUSAND 

"I  say,"  inquired  Bobby  Little  rather 
shyly,  "do  you  ever  look  the  other  way  when 
you  meet  a  Tommy  f " 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  everybody. 

"Well,  the  other  day  I  met  one  walking  out 
with  his  girl  along  the  road,  and  I  felt  so 
blooming  de  trop  that " 

Here  the  "fall-in"  sounded,  and  this  deli- 
cate problem  was  left  unsolved.  But  Mr. 
Waddell,  who  liked  to  get  to  the  bottom  of 
things,  continued  to  ponder  these  matters 
as  he  marched.  He  mistrusted  the  omnis- 
cience of  Struthers  and  the  superficial  infalli- 
bility of  the  self-satisfied  Cockerell.  Accord- 
ingly, after  consultation  with  that  eager 
searcher  after  knowledge,  Second  Lieutenant 
Little,  he  took  the  laudable  but  fatal  step  of 
carrying  his  difficulties  to  one  Captain  Wag- 
staffe,  the  humorist  of  the  Battalion. 

Wagstaffe  listened  with  an  appearance  of 
absorbed  interest.  Finally  he  said  — 

"These  are  very  important  questions,  Mr. 
Waddell,  and  you  acted  quite  rightly  in  laying 
them  before  me.  I  will  consult  the  Deputy 
Assistant  Instructor  in  Military  Etiquette, 
and  will  obtain  a  written  answer  to  your 
inquiries. ' ' 

"Oh,  thanks  awfully,  sir!"  exclaimed 
Waddell. 

The  result  of  Captain  Wagstaffe's  applica- 
tion to  the  mysterious  official  just  designated 
was  forthcoming  next  day  in  the  form  of  a 
neatly  typed  document.  It  was  posted  in  the 


LAWS  OF  THE  MEDES  AND  PERSIANS    43 

Ante-room  (the  C.O.  being  out  at  dinner),  and 
ran  as  follows :  — 


SALUTES 
YOUNG  OFFICERS,  HINTS  FOR  THE  GUIDANCE  OF 

The  following  is  the  correct  procedure  for  a 
young*  officer  in  charge  of  an  armed  party  upon 
meeting  — 

(a)  A  Staff  Officer  riding  a  bicycle. 

Correct    Procedure.  —  If    marching  at    attention, 

order    your    men    to    march    at    ease  and   to.  light 

cigarettes    and    eat    bananas.    Then,  having    fixed 

bayonets,     give    the     order:     Across  the    road  — 
straggle  ! 

(&)  A  funeral. 

Correct  Procedure.  —  Strike  up  Tipperary,  and 
look  the  other  way. 

(c)  A  General  Officer,  who  strolls  across  your  Bar- 
rack Square  precisely  at  the  moment  when  you  and 
your  Platoon  have  got  into  mutual  difficulties. 

Correct  Procedure.  —  Lie  down  flat  upon  your  face 
(directing  your  platoon  to  do  the  same),  cover  your 
head  with  gravel,  and  pretend  you  are  not  there. 

SPECIAL  CASES 

(a)  A  soldier,  wheeling  a  wheelbarrow  and  bal- 
ancing a  swill-tub  on  his  head,  meets  an  officer  walk- 
ing out  in  review  dress. 

Correct  Procedure.  —  The  soldier  will  immediately 
cant  the  swill-tub  to  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees, 


44     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

at  a  distance  of  one  and  a  half  inches  above  his  right 
eyebrow.  (In  the  case  of  Rifle  Regiments  the  sol- 
dier will  balance  the  swill-tub  on  his  nose.)  He  will 
then  invite  the  officer,  by  a  smart  movement  of  the 
left  ear,  to  seat  himself  on  the  wheelbarrow. 

Correct  Acknowledgment.  —  The  officer  will  com- 
ply, placing  his  feet  upon  the  right  and  left  hubs  of 
the  wheel  respectively,  with  the  ball  of  the  toe  in  each 
case  at  a  distance  of  one  inch  (when  serving  abroad, 
2y2  centimetres)  from  the  centre  of  gravity  of  the 
wheelbarrow.  (In  the  case  of  Rifle  Regiments  the 
officer  will  tie  his  feet  in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  his 
neck.)  The  soldier  will  then  advance  six  paces,  after 
which  the  officer  will  dismount  and  go  home  and 
have  a  bath. 

(&)  A  soldier,  with  his  arm  round  a  lady's  waist 
in  the  gloaming,  encounters  an  officer. 

Correct  Procedure.  —  The  soldier  will  salute  with 
his  disengaged  arm.  The  lady  will  administer  a  sharp 
tap  with  the  end  of  her  umbrella  to  the  officer's  tunic, 
at  point  one  inch  above  the  lowest  button. 

Correct  Acknowledgment.  —  The  officer  will  take 
the  end  of  the  umbrella  firmly  in  his  right  hand, 
and  will  require  the  soldier  to  introduce  him  to  the 
lady.  He  will  then  direct  the  soldier  to  double  back 
to  barracks. 

(c)  A  party  of  soldiers,  seated  upon  the  top  of  a 
transport  waggon,  see  an  officer  passing  at  the  side 
of  the  road.  , 

Correct  Procedure.  —  The  senior  N.C.O.  (or  if  no 
N.C.O.  be  present,  the  oldest  soldier)  will  call  the 
men  to  attention,  and  the  party,  taking  their  time 
from  the  right,  will  spit  upon  the  officer's  head  in  a 
soldier-like  manner. 


LAWS  OF  THE  MEDES  AND  PERSIANS    45 

Correct  Acknowledgment.  —  The  officer  will  break 
into  a  smart  trot. 

(d)  A  soldier,  driving  an  officer's  motor-car  without 
the  knowledge  of  the  officer,  encounters  the  officer  in 
a  narrow  country  lane. 

Correct   Procedure.  —  The   soldier   will   open   the 
throttle  to  its  full  extent  and  run  the  officer  over. 


Correct    Acknowledgment.  —  No    acknowledgment 


is  required. 

NOTE.  —  None  of  the  above  compliments  will  "be 
paid  upon  active  service. 

Unfortunately  the  Colonel  came  home  from 
dining  out  sooner  than  was  expected,  and 
found  this  outrageous  document  still  upon  the 
notice-board.  But  he  was  a  good  Colonel. 
He  merely  remarked  approvingly  — 

"H'm.  Quite  so!  Non  semper  arcum 
tendit  Apollo.  It's  just  as  well  to  keep  smil- 
ing these  days. ' ' 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Waddell  made  a  point  in 
future,  when  in  need  of  information,  of  seek- 
ing the  same  from  a  less  inspired  source  than 
Captain  Wagstaffe. 

There  was  another  Law  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians  with  which  our  four  friends  soon 
became  familiar  —  that  which  governs  the  re- 
lations of  the  various  ranks  to  one  another. 
Great  Britain  is  essentially  the  home  of  the 
chaperon.  We  pride  ourselves,  as  a  nation, 
upon  the  extreme  care  with  which  we  protect 


46     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

our  young  gentlewomen  from  contaminating 
influences.  But  the  fastidious  attention  which 
we  bestow  upon  our  national  maidenhood  is 
as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  protective 
commotion  with  which  we  surround  that 
shrinking  sensitive  plant,  Mr.  Thomas  Atkins. 

Take  etiquette  and  deportment.  If  a  soldier 
wishes  to  speak  to  an  officer,  an  introduction 
must  be  effected  by  a  sergeant.  Let  us  sup- 
pose that  Private  M'Splae,  in  the  course  of 
a  route-march,  develops  a  blister  upon  his 
great  toe.  He  begins  by  intimating  the  fact 
to  the  nearest  lance-corporal.  The  lance- 
corporal  takes  the  news  to  the  platoon  ser- 
geant, who  informs  the  platoon  commander, 
who  may  or  may  not  decide  to  take  the  opin- 
ion of  his  company  commander  in  the  matter. 
Anyhow,  when  the  hobbling  warrior  finally 
obtains  permission  to  fall  out  and  alleviate 
his  distress,  a  corporal  goes  with  him,  for  fear 
he  should  lose  himself,  or  his  boot  —  it  is 
wonderful  what  Thomas  can  lose  when  he 
sets  his  mind  to  it  —  or,  worst  crime  of  all, 
his  rifle. 

Again,  if  two  privates  are  detailed  to  empty 
the  regimental  ashbin,  a  junior  N.C.O.  ranges 
them  in  line,  calls  them  to  attention,  and 
marches  them  off  to  the  scene  of  their  labours, 
decently  and  in  order.  If  a  soldier  obtains 
leave  to  go  home  on  furlough  for  the  week- 
end, he  is  collected  into  a  party,  and,  after 
being  inspected  to  see  that  his  buttons  are 
clean,  his  hair  properly  cut,  and  his  nose 


LAWS  OF  THE  MEDES  AND  PEESIANS    47 

correctly  blown,  is  marched  off  to  the  sta- 
tion, where  a  ticket  is  provided  for  him, 
and  he  and  his  fellow-wayfarers  are  safely 
tucked  into  a  third-smoker  labelled  "Mili- 
tary Party."  (No  wonder  he  sometimes  gets 
lost  on  arriving  at  Waterloo!)  In  short,  if 
there  is  a  job  to  be  done,  the  senior  soldier 
present  chaperons  somebody  else  while  he 
does  it. 

This  system  has  been  attacked  on  the 
ground  that  it  breeds  loss  of  self-reliance 
and  initiative.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  re- 
sult is  almost  exactly  the  opposite.  Under 
its  operation  a  soldier  rapidly  acquires  the 
art  of  placing  himself  under  the  command 
of  his  nearest  superior  in  rank;  but  at  the 
same  time  he  learns  with  equal  rapidity  to 
take  command  himself  if  no  superior  be  pres- 
ent—  no  bad  thing  in  times  of  battle  and 
sudden  death,  when  shrapnel  is  whistling, 
and  promotion  is  taking  place  with  grim  and 
unceasing  automaticity. 

This  principle  is  extended,  too,  to  the 
enforcement  of  law  and  order.  If  Private 
M'Sumph  is  insubordinate  or  riotous,  there 
is  never  any  question  of  informal  correction 
or  summary  justice.  News  of  the  incident 
wends  its  way  upward,  by  a  series  of  prop- 
erly regulated  channels,  to  the  officer  in 
command.  Presently,  by  the  same  route, 
an  order  comes  back,  and  in  a  twinkling  the 
offender  finds  himself  taken  under  arrest 
and  marched  off  to  the  guard-room  by  two 


48     THE   FIKST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

of  his  own  immediate  associates.  (One  of 
them  may  be  his  own  rear-rank  man.)  But 
no  officer  or  non-commissioned  officer  ever 
lays  a  finger  on  him.  The  penalty  for 
striking  a  superior  officer  is  so  severe  that 
the  law  decrees,  very  wisely,  that  a  soldier 
must  on  no  account  ever  be  arrested  by 
any  save  men  of  his  own  rank.  If  Private 
M'Sumph,  while  being  removed  in  custody, 
strikes  Private  Tosh  upon  the  nose  and 
kicks  Private  Cosh  upon  the  shin,  to  the  effu- 
sion of  blood,  no  great  harm  is  done  —  ex- 
cept to  the  lacerated  Cosh  and  Tosh;  but 
if  he  had  smitten  an  intruding  officer  in 
the  eye,  his  punishment  would  have  been  dire 
and  grim.  So,  though  we  may  call  military 
law  cumbrous  and  grandmotherly,  there  is 
sound  sense  and  real  mercy  at  the  root 
of  it. 

But  there  is  one  Law  of  the  Medes  and  Per- 
sians which  is  sensibly  relaxed  these  days. 
We,  the  newly  joined,  have  always  been  given 
to  understand  that  whatever  else  you  do,  you 
must  never,  never  betray  any  interest  in  your 
profession  —  in  short,  talk  shop  —  at  Mess. 
But  in  our  Mess  no  one  ever  talks  anything 
else.  At  luncheon,  we  relate  droll  anecdotes 
concerning  our  infant  platoons;  at  tea,  we 
explain,  to  any  one  who  will  listen,  exactly 
how  we  placed  our  sentry  line  in  last  night's 
operations;  at  dinner,  we  brag  about  our 
Company  musketry  returns,  and  quote  un- 


LAWS   OF  THE  MEDES  AND  PEESIANS    49 

truthful  extracts  from  our  butt  registers.  At 
breakfast,  every  one  has  a  newspaper,  which 
he  props  before  him  and  reads,  generally 
aloud.  We  exchange  observations  upon  the 
war  news.  We  criticise  von  Kluck,  and  speak 
kindly  of  Joffre.  We  note,  daily,  that  there 
is  nothing  to  report  on  the  Allies'  right,  and 
wonder  regularly  how  the  Russians  are  really 
getting  on  in  the  Eastern  theatre. 

Then,  after  observing  that  the  only  sports- 
man in  the  combined  forces  of  the  German 
Empire  is  —  or  was  —  the  captain  of  the 
Emden,  we  come  to  the  casualty  lists  —  and 
there  is  silence. 

Englishmen  are  fond  of  saying,  with  the 
satisfied  air  of  men  letting  off  a  really  excel- 
lent joke,  that  every  one  in  Scotland  knows 
every  one  else.  As  we  study  the  morning's 
Boll  of  Honour,  we  realise  that  never  was  a 
more  truthful  jest  uttered.  There  is  not  a 
name  in  the  list  of  those  who  have  died  for 
Scotland  which  is  not  familiar  to  us.  If  we 
did  not  know  the  man  —  too  often  the  boy  — 
himself,  we  knew  his  people,  or  at  least  where 
his  home  was.  In  England,  if  you  live  in 
Kent,  and  you  read  that  the  Northumberland 
Fusiliers  have  been  cut  up  or  the  Duke  of 
Cornwall's  Light  Infantry  badly  knocked 
about,  you  merely  sigh  that  so  many  more 
good  men  should  have  fallen.  Their  names 
are  glorious  names,  but  they  are  only  names. 
But  never  a  Scottish  regiment  comes  under 
fire  but  the  whole  of  Scotland  feels  it.  Scot- 


50     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

land  is  small  enough  to  know  all  her  sons  by 
heart.  You  may  live  in  Berwickshire,  and 
the  man  who  has  died  may  have  come  from 
Skye;  but  his  name  is  quite  familiar  to  you. 
Big  England's  sorrow  is  national;  little  Scot- 
land's is  personal. 

Then  we  pass  on  to  our  letters.  "Many  of 
us  —  particularly  the  senior  officers  —  have 
news  direct  from  the  trenches  —  scribbled 
scraps  torn  out  of  field-message  books.  "We 
get  constant  tidings  of  the  Old  Regiment. 
They  marched  thirty-five  miles  on  such  a 
day;  they  captured  a  position  after  being 
under  continuous  shell  fire  for  eight  hours  on 
another;  they  were  personally  thanked  by 
the  Field-Marshal  on  another.  Oh,  we  shall 
have  to  work  hard  to  get  up  to  that  standard ! 

"They  want  more  officers,"  announces  the 
Colonel.  "Naturally,  after  the  time  they've 
been  having !  But  they  must  go  to  the  Third 
Battalion  for  them:  that's  the  proper  place. 
I  will  not  have  them  coming  here:  I've  told 
them  so  at  Headquarters.  The  Service  Bat- 
talions simply  must  be  led  by  the  officers 
who  have  trained  them  if  they  are  to  have 
a  Chinaman's  chance  when  we  go  out.  I 
shall  threaten  to  resign  if  they  try  any  more 
of  their  tricks.  That'll  frighten  'em!  Even 
dug-outs  like  me  are  rare  and  valuable  objects 
at  present." 

The  Company  Commanders  murmur  assent 
—  on  the  whole  sympathetically.  Anxious 
though  they  are  to  get  upon  business  terms 


LAWS  OF  THE  MEDES  AND  PEESIANS    51 

witli  the  Kaiser,  they  are  loath  to  abandon 
the  unkempt  but  sturdy  companies  over 
which  they  have  toiled  so  hard,  and  which 
now,  though  destitute  of  blossom,  are  rich  in 
promise  of  fruit.  But  the  senior  subalterns 
look  up  hopefully.  Their  lot  is  hard.  Some 
of  them  have  been  in  the  Service  for  ten 
years,  yet  they  have  been  left  behind.  They 
command  no  companies.  "Here,"  their  faces 
say,  "we  are  merely  marking  time  while 
others  learn.  Send  us!" 

However,  though  they  have  taken  no  offi- 
cers yet,  signs  are  not  wanting  that  they  will 
take  some  soon.  To-day  each  of  us  was  pre- 
sented with  a  small  metal  disc. 

Bobby  Little  examined  his  curiously.  Upon 
the  face  thereof  was  stamped,  in  ragged,  ir- 
regular capitals  — 


LITTLE,  R.,  2ND  LT., 

B.  &  W.  HIGHRS. 

C.  OF  E. 


"What  is  this  for!"  he  asked. 
Captain  Wagstaffe  answered. 
"You  wear  it  round  your  neck,"  he  said. 


52     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Our  four  friends,  once  bitten,  regarded  the 
humorist  suspiciously. 

"Are  you  rotting  us?"  asked  Waddell 
cautiously. 

"No,  my  son,"  replied  Wagstaffe,  "I  am 
not." 

"What  is  it  for,  then?" 

"It's  called  an  Identity  Disc.  Every  sol- 
dier on  active  service  wears  one." 

"Why  should  the  idiots  put  one's  religion 
on  the  thing?"  inquired  Master  Cockerell, 
scornfully  regarding  the  letters  "C.  of  E." 
upon  his  disc. 

Wagstaffe  regarded  him  curiously. 

"Think  it  over,"  he  suggested. 


VII 

SHOOTING  STEAIGHT 

"WHAT  for  is  the  wee  felly  gaun'  tae  show  us 
puctures  1 ' ' 

Second  Lieutenant  Bobby  Little,  assisted 
by  a  sergeant  and  two  unhandy  privates,  is 
engaged  in  propping  a  large  and  highly- 
coloured  work  of  art,  mounted  on  a  rough 
wooden  frame  and  supported  on  two  unsteady 
legs,  against  the  wall  of  the  barrack  square. 
A  half -platoon  of  A  Company,  seated  upon  an 
adjacent  bank,  chewing  grass  and  enjoying 
the  mellow  autumn  sunshine,  regard  the 
swaying  masterpiece  with  frank  curiosity. 
For  the  last  fortnight  they  have  been  en- 
gaged in  imbibing  the  science  of  musketry. 
They  have  learned  to  hold  their  rifles  cor- 
rectly, sitting,  kneeling,  standing,  or  lying; 
to  bring  their  backsights  and  foresights  into 
an  undeviating  straight  line  with  the  base 
of  the  bull's-eye;  and  to  press  the  trigger 
in  the  manner  laid  down  in  the  Musketry 
Eegulations  —  without  wriggling  the  body 
or  "pulling-off." 


54:     THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

They  have  also  learned  to  adjust  their 
sights,  to  perform  the  loading  motions  rapidly 
and  correctly,  and  to  obey  such  simple  com- 
mands as  — 

"At  them  twa  weemen" —  officers'  wives, 
probably  —  "proceeding  from  left  tae  right 
across  the  square,  at  five  hundred  yairds" 
—  they  are  really  about  fifteen  yards  away, 
covered  with  confusion  —  "five  roonds,  fire!" 

But  as  yet  they  have  discharged  no  shots 
from  their  rifles.  It  has  all  been  make-believe, 
with  dummy  cartridges,  and  fictitious  ranges, 
and  snapping  triggers.  To  be  quite  frank, 
they  are  getting  just  a  little  tired  of  musketry 
training  —  forgetting  for  the  moment  that  a 
soldier  who  cannot  use  his  rifle  is  merely  an 
expense  to  his  country  and  a  free  gift  to  the 
enemy.  But  the  sight  of  Bobby  Little's  art 
gallery  cheers  them  up.  They  contemplate 
the  picture  with  childlike  interest.  It  resem- 
bles nothing  so  much  as  one  of  those  pleasing 
but  imaginative  posters  by  the  display  of 
which  our  Eailway  Companies  seek  to  attract 
the  tourist  to  the  less  remunerative  portions 
of  their  systems. 

"What  for  is  the  wee  felly  gaun'  tae  show 
us  puctures?" 

Thus  Private  Mucklewame.  A  pundit  in 
the  rear  rank  answers  him. 

"Yon's  Gairmany." 

"Gairmany  ma  auntie!"  retorts  Muckle- 
wame. "There's  no  chumney-stalks  in  Gair- 
many." 


SHOOTING    STKAIGHT  55 

" Maybe  no;  but  there's  wundnmlls.  See 
the  wundmull  there  —  on  yon  wee  knowe ! ' ' 

"  There  a  pit-held !"  exclaims  another  voice. 
This  homely  spectacle  is  received  with  an 
affectionate  sigh.  Until  two  months  ago  more 
than  half  the  platoon  had  never  been  out  of 
sight  of  at  least  half  a  dozen. 

"See  the  kirk,  in  ablow  the  brae!"  says 
some  one  else,  in  a  pleased  voice.  "It  has  a 
nock  in  the  steeple. ' ' 

"I  hear  they  Gairmans  send  signals  wi7 
their  kirk-nocks,"  remarks  Private  M' Mick- 
ing,  who,  as  one  of  the  Battalion  signallers  — 
or  "buzzers,"  as  the  vernacular  has  it,  in  imi- 
tation of  the  buzzing  of  the  Morse  instrument 
—  regards  himself  as  a  sort  of  junior  Staff 
Officer.  "They  jist  semaphore  with  the 
haunds  of  the  nock " 

"I  wonder,"  remarks  the  dreamy  voice  of 
Private  M'Leary,  the  humorist  of  the  platoon, 
"did  ever  a  Gairman  buzzer  pit  the  ba' 
through  his  ain  goal  in  a  fitba'  match?" 

This  irrelevant  reference  to  a  regrettable 
incident  of  the  previous  Saturday  afternoon 
is  greeted  with  so  much  laughter  that  Bobby 
Little,  who  has  at  length  fixed  his  picture  in 
position,  whips  round. 

'  *  Less  talking  there ! "  he  announces  severely, 
"  or  I  shall  have  to  stand  you  all  at  attention ! ' ' 

There  is  immediate  silence  —  there  is  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  Bobby's  discipline  —  and 
the  outraged  M'Micking  has  to  content  him- 
self with  a  homicidal  glare  in  the  direction  of 


56     THE   FIEST  HUNDEED   THOUSAND 

M'Leary,  who  is  now  hanging  virtuously  upon 
his  officer's  lips. 

"This,"  proceeds  Bobby  Little,  "is  what 
is  known  as  a  landscape  target." 

He  indicates  the  picture,  which,  apparently 
overcome  by  so  much  public  notice,  promptly 
falls  flat  upon  its  face.  A  fatigue  party  under 
the  sergeant  hurries  to  its  assistance. 

"It  is  intended,"  resumes  Bobby  presently, 
"to  teach  you  —  us  —  to  become  familiar  with 
various  kinds  of  country,  and  to  get  into  the 
habit  of  picking  out  conspicuous  features  of 
the  landscape,  and  getting  them  by  heart, 
and  —  er  —  so  on.  I  want  you  all  to  study 
this  picture  for  three  minutes.  Then  I  shall 
face  you  about  and  ask  you  to  describe  it 
tome." 

After  three  minutes  of  puckered  brows  and 
hard  breathing  the  squad  is  turned  to  its  rear, 
and  the  examination  proceeds. 

"Lance-Corporal  Ness,  what  did  you  notice 
in  the  foreground  of  the  picture?" 

Lance-Corporal  Ness  gazes  fiercely  before 
him.  He  has  noticed  a  good  deal,  but  can 
remember  nothing.  Moreover,  he  has  no  very 
clear  idea  what  a  foreground  may  be. 

'  '  Private  Mucklewame  ? ' ' 

Again  silence,  while  the  rotund  Muckle- 
wame perspires  in  the  throes  of  mental  ex- 
ertion. 

"Private  Wemyss?" 

No  answer. 

"Private  M'Mickmg!" 


SHOOTING   STEAIGHT  57 

The  " buzzer"  smiles  feebly,  but  says 
nothing. 

"Well,"  —  desperately  —  "Sergeant  An- 
gus !  Tell  them  what  you  noticed  in  the  fore- 
ground." 

Sergeant  Angus  (floruit  A.D.  1895)  springs 
smartly  to  attention,  and  replies,  with  the 
instant  obedience  of  the  old  soldier  — 

"The  sky,  sirr." 

"Not  in  the  foreground,  as  a  rule,"  replies 
Bobby  Little  gently.  "About  turn  again,  all 
of  you,  and  we'll  have  another  try." 

In  his  next  attempt  Bobby  abandons  in- 
dividual catechism. 

"Now,"  he  begins,  "what  conspicuous  ob- 
jects do  we  notice  on  this  target?  In  the 
foreground  I  can  see  a  low  knoll.  To  the 
left  I  see  a  windmill.  In  the  distance  is  a 
tall  chimney.  Half -right  is  a  church.  How 
would  that  church  be  marked  on  a  map  ? ' ' 

No  reply. 

"Well,"  explains  Bobby,  anxious  to  parade 
a  piece  of  knowledge  which  he  only  acquired 
himself  a  day  or  two  ago,  "churches  are 
denoted  in  maps  by  a  cross,  mounted  on  a 
square  or  circle,  according  as  the  church  has 
a  square  tower  or  a  steeple.  What  has  this 
church  got?" 

"A  nock!"  bellow  the  platoon,  with  stun- 
ning enthusiasm.  (All  but  Private  M* Mick- 
ing,  that  is.) 

"A  clock,  sir,"  translates  the  sergeant, 
sotto  voce. 


58     THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

"A  clock?  All  right:  but  what  I  wanted 
was  a  steeple.  Then,  farther  away,  we  can  see 
a  mine,  a  winding  brook,  and  a  house,  with 
a  wall  in  front  of  it.  Who  can  see  them?" 

To  judge  by  the  collective  expression  of  the 
audience,  no  one  does.  Bobby  ploughs  on. 

6 '  Upon  the  skyline  we  notice  —  Squad, 
'shun!" 

Captain  Wagstaffe  has  strolled  up.  He  is 
second  in  command  of  A  Company.  Bobby 
explains  to  him  modestly  what  he  has  been 
trying  to  do. 

'  '  Yes,  I  heard  you, ' '  says  Wagstaff  e.  ' l  You 
take  a  breather,  while  I  carry  on  for  a  bit. 
Squad,  stand  easy,  and  tell  me  what  you  can 
see  on  that  target.  Lance-Corporal  Ness, 
show  me  a  pit-head. ' ' 

Lance-Corporal  Ness  steps  briskly  forward 
and  lays  a  grubby  forefinger  on  Bobby's 
"mine." 

"Private  Mucklewame,  show  me  a  burn." 

The  brook  is  at  once  identified. 

"Private  M'Leary,  shut  your  eyes  and  tell 
me  what  there  is  just  to  the  right  of  the 
windmill. ' ' 

"A  wee  knowe,  sirr,"  replies  M'Leary  at 
once.  Bobby  recognises  his  "low  knoll"  — 
also  the  fact  that  it  is  no  use  endeavouring 
to  instruct  the  unlettered  until  you  have 
learned  their  language. 

"Very  good!"  says  Captain  Wagstaffe. 
"Now  we  will  go  on  to  what  is  known 
as  Description  and  Eecognition  of  Targets. 


SHOOTING    STRAIGHT  59 

Supposing  I  had  sent  one  of  you  forward  into 
that  landscape  as  a  scout.  —  By  the  way,  what 
is  a  scout  f " 

Dead  silence,  as  usual. 

"Come  along!  Tell  me,  somebody!  Pri- 
vate Mucklewame?" 

"They  gang  oot  in  a  procession  on  Setter- 
day  efternoons,  sirr,  in  short  breeks,"  replies 
Mucklewame  promptly. 

"A  procession  is  the  very  last  thing  a  scout 
goes  out  in!"  raps  Wagstaffe.  (It  is  plain 
to  Mucklewame  that  the  Captain  has  never 
been  in  Wishaw,  but  he  does  not  argue  the 
point.)  "Private  M'Micking,  what  is  a 
scout?" 

"A  spy,  sirr,"  replies  the  omniscient  one. 

"Well,  that's  better;  but  there's  a  big  dif- 
ference between  the  two.  What  is  it?" 

This  is  a  poser.  Several  men  know  the 
difference,  but  feel  quite  incapable  of  explain- 
ing it.  The  question  runs  down  the  front 
rank.  Finally  it  is  held  up  and  disposed  of 
by  one  Mearns  (from  Aberdeen). 

"A  spy,  sirr,  gets  mair  money  than  a 
scout. ' ' 

"Does  he?"  asks  Captain  Wagstaffe,  smil- 
ing. "Well,  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  say. 
But  if  he  does,  he  earns  it !  Why?" 

"Because  if  he  gets  catched  he  gets  shot," 
volunteers  a  rear-rank  man. 

' '  Eight.    Why  is  he  shot  ? ' ' 

This  conundrum  is  too  deep  for  the  squad. 
The  Captain  has  to  answer  it  himself. 


60     THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"  Because  lie  is  not  in  uniform,  and  cannot 
therefore  be  treated  as  an  ordinary  prisoner 
of  war.  So  never  go  scouting  in  your  night- 
shirt, Mucklewame ! ' ' 

The  respectable  Mucklewame  blushes  deeply 
at  this  outrageous  suggestion,  but  Wagstaffe 
proceeds  — 

"Now,  supposing  I  sent  you  out  scouting, 
and  you  discovered  that  over  there  —  some- 
where in  the  middle  of  this  field"  —  he  lays  a 
finger  on  the  field  in  question  —  "there  was 
a  fold  in  the  ground  where  a  machine-gun 
section  was  concealed:  what  would  you  do 
when  you  got  back?" 

"I  would  tell  you,  sirr,"  replied  Private 
M'Micking  politely. 

"Tell  me  what?" 

"That  they  was  there,  sirr." 

"Where?" 

"In  yon  place." 

"How  would  you  indicate  the  position  of 
the  place  ? ' ' 

"I  would  pint  it  oot  with  ma  finger, 
sirr." 

"Invisible  objects  half  a  mile  away  are  not 
easily  pointed  out  with  the  finger,"  Captain 
Wagstaffe  mentions.  "Lance-Corporal  Ness, 
how  would  you  describe  it  ? " 

"I  would  tak'  you  there,  sirr." 

"Thanks!  But  I  doubt  if  either  of  us 
would  come  back !  Private  Wemyss  1 ' ' 

"I  would  say,  sirr,  that  the  place  was  west 
of  the  mansion-hoose. ' y 


SHOOTING   STRAIGHT  61 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  land  west  of  that 
mansion-house,  you  know,"  expostulates  the 
Captain  gently;  "but  we  are  getting  on. 
Thompson  ?" 

"I  would  say,  sirr,"  replies  Thompson, 
puckering  his  brow,  "that  it  was  in  ablow 
they  trees." 

"It  would  be  hard  to  indicate  the  exact 
trees  you  meant.  Trees  are  too  common. 
You  try,  Corporal  King." 

But  Corporal  King,  who  earned  his  stripes 
by  reason  of  physical  rather  than  intellectual 
attributes,  can  only  contribute  a  lame  refer- 
ence to  "a  bit  hedge  by  yon  dyke,  where 
there's  a  kin'  o'  hole  in  the  tairget."  Wag- 
staffe  breaks  in  — 

"Now,  everybody,  take  some  conspicuous 
and  unmistakable  object  about  the  middle 
of  that  landscape  —  something  which  no  one 
can  mistake.  The  mansion-house  will  do  — 
the  near  end.  Now  then  —  mansion-house , 
near  end!  Got  that?" 

There  is  a  general  chorus  of  assent. 

"Very  well.  I  want  you  to  imagine  that 
the  base  of  the  mansion-house  is  the  centre 
of  a  great  clock-face.  Where  would  twelve 
o'clock  be?" 

The  platoon  are  plainly  tickled  by  this  new 
round-game.  They  reply  — 

"Straughtup!" 

"Eight.    Where  is  nine  o'clock?" 

" Over  tae  the  left." 

"Very  good.    And  so  on  with  all  the  other 


62     THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

hours.    Now,  supposing  I  were  to  say,  End 
of  mansion-house  —  six  o'clock  —  white  gate 

—  you  would  carry  your  eye  straight  down- 
ward, through  the  garden,  until  it  encoun- 
tered the  gate.     I  would  thus  have  enabled 
you  to  recognise  a  very  small  object  in  a 
wide  landscape  in  the  quickest  possible  time. 
See  the  idea? " 

"Yes,  sirr." 

"All  right.  Now  for  our  fold  in  the  ground. 
End  of  mansion-house  —  eight  o'clock  —  got 
that!" 

There  is  an  interested  murmur  of  assent. 

"That  gives  you  the  direction  from  the 
house.  Now  for  the  distance!  End  of 
mansion-house  —  eight  o'clock  —  tivo  finger- 
breadths  —  what  does  that  give  you,  Lance-s 
Corporal  Ness!" 

"The  corrner  of  a  field,  sirr." 

"Eight.  This  is  our  field.  We  have 
picked  it  correctly  out  of  about  twenty 
fields,  you  see.  Corner  of  field.  In  the 
middle  of  the  field  f  a  fold  in  the  ground.  At 
nine  hundred  —  at  the  fold  in  the  ground 

—  five    rounds  —  fire!      You    see    the    idea 
now?" 

"Yes,  sirr." 

"Very  good.  Let  the  platoon  practise  de- 
scribing targets  to  one  another,  Mr.  Little. 
Don't  be  too  elaborate.  Never  employ  either 
the  clock  or  finger  method  if  you  can  describe 
your  target  without.  For  instance:  Left 
of  windmill  —  triangular  cornfield.  At  the 


SHOOTING   STEAIGHT  63 

nearest  corner  —  six  hundred  —  rapid  fire!  is 
all  you  want.  Carry  on,  Mr.  Little." 

And  leaving  Bobby  and  his  infant  class  to 
practise  this  new  and  amusing  pastime,  Cap- 
tain Wagstaffe  strolls  away  across  the  square 
to  where  the  painstaking  Waddell  is  con- 
tending with  another  squad. 

They,  too,  have  a  landscape  target  —  a 
different  one.  Before  it  half  a  dozen  rifles 
stand,  set  in  rests.  Waddell  has  given  the 
order:  Four  hundred  —  at  the  road,  where  it 
passes  under  the  viaduct  —  fire!  and  six  pri- 
vates have  laid  the  six  rifles  upon  the  point 
indicated.  Waddell  and  Captain  Wagstaffe 
walk  down  the  line,  peering  along  the  sights 
of  the  rifles.  Five  are  correctly  aligned:  the 
sixth  points  to  the  spacious  firmament  above 
the  viaduct. 

" Hallo!"  observes  Wagstaffe. 

"This  is  the  man's  third  try,  sir,"  explains 
the  harassed  Waddell.  "He  does  n't  seem  to 
be  able  to  distinguish  anything  at  all." 

"Eyesight  wrong?" 

"So  he  says,  sir." 

"Been  a  long  time  finding  out,  hasn't 
he?" 

' t  The  sergeant  told  me,  sir, ' '  confides  Wad- 
dell, "that  in  his  opinion  the  man  is  *  work- 
ing for  his  ticket.'  " 

"Umph!" 

"I  did  not  .quite  understand  the  expres- 
sion, sir,"  continues  the  honest  youth,  "so 
I  thought  I  would  consult  you." 


64     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"It  means  that  he  is  trying  to  get  his  dis- 
charge. Bring  him  along:  I'll  soon  find  out 
whether  he  is  skrim-shanking  or  not. ' ' 

Private  M'Sweir  is  introduced,  and  led  off 
to  the  lair  of  that  hardened  cynic,  the  Medical 
Officer.  Here  he  is  put  through  some  simple 
visual  tests.  He  soon  finds  himself  out  of 
his  depth.  It  is  extremely  difficult  to  feign 
either  myopia,  hypermetria,  or  astigmatism 
if  you  are  not  acquainted  with  the  necessary 
symptoms,  and  have  not  decided  beforehand 
which  (if  any)  of  these  diseases  you  are 
suffering  from.  In  five  minutes  the  afflicted 
M'Sweir  is  informed,  to  his  unutterable  in- 
dignation, that  he  has  passed  a  severe  ocular 
examination  with  flying  colours,  and  is  forth- 
with marched  back  to  his  squad,  with  in- 
structions to  recognise  all  targets  in  future, 
under  pain  of  special  instruction  in  the  laws 
of  optics  during  his  leisure  hours.  Verily, 
in  K  (1) — that  is  the  tabloid  title  of  the 
First  Hundred  Thousand  —  the  way  of  the 
malingerer  is  hard. 

Still,  the  seed  does  not  always  fall  upon 
stony  ground.  On  his  way  to  inspect  a  third 
platoon  Captain  Wagstaffe  passes  Bobby 
Little  and  his  merry  men.  They  are  in  pairs, 
indicating  targets  to  one  another. 

Says  Private  Walker  (oblivious  of  Captain 
Wagstaffe's  proximity)  to  his  friend,  Private 
M'Leary —  in  an  affected  parody  of  his  in- 
structor's staccato  utterance  — 

"At  yon  three  Galrman  spies,  gaun9  up  a 


SHOOTING    STRAIGHT  65 

close  for  tae  despatch  some  wireless  tele- 
graphy —  fufty  roonds  —  fire!" 

To  which  Private  M'Leary,  not  to  be  out- 
done, responds  — 

"Public  hoose — in  the  baur — back  o'  seeven 
o'clock — twa,  drams — fower  fingers — rapid!" 


From  this  it  is  a  mere  step  to  — 

"Butt  Pairty,  'shun!  Forrm  fonrrs! 
Bight!  By  your  left,  quick  marrch!" 

—  on  a  bleak  and  cheerless  morning  in  late 
October.  It  is  not  yet  light;  but  a  depressed 
party  of  about  twenty-five  are  falling  into  line 
at  the  acrid  invitation  of  two  sergeants,  who 
have  apparently  decided  that  the  pen  is 
mightier  than  the  Lee-Enfield  rifle;  for  each 
wears  one  stuck  in  his  glengarry  like  an 
eagle's  feather,  and  carries  a  rabbinical-look- 
ing inkhorn  slung  to  his  bosom.  This  literary 
pose  is  due  to  the  fact  that  records  are  about 
to  be  taken  of  the  performances  of  the  Com- 
pany on  the  shooting-range. 

A  half -awakened  subaltern,  who  breakfasted 
at  the  grisly  hour  of  a  quarter-to-six,  takes 
command,  and  the  dolorous  procession  dis- 
appears into  the  gloom. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Battalion  parades, 
and  sets  off,  to  the  sound  of  music,  in  pursuit. 
(It  is  perhaps  needless  to  state  that  although 
we  are  deficient  in  rifles,  possess  neither  belts, 


66     THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

pouches,  nor  greatcoats,  and  are  compelled  to 
attach  our  scanty  accoutrements  to  our  per- 
sons with  ingenious  contrivances  of  string,  we 
boast  a  fully  equipped  and  highly  efficient 
pipe  band,  complete  with  pipers,  big  drummer, 
side  drummers,  and  corybantic  drum-major.) 

By  eight  o'clock,  after  a  muddy  tramp  of 
four  miles,  we  are  assembled  at  the  two- 
hundred-yards  firing  point  upon  Number 
Three  Range.  The  range  itself  is  little 
more  than  a  drive  cut  through  a  pine- wood. 
It  is  nearly  half  a  mile  long.  Across  the 
far  end  runs  a  high  sandy  embankment, 
decorated  just  below  the  ridge  with  a  row 
of  number-boards  —  one  for  each  target.  Of 
the  targets  themselves  nothing  as  yet  is  to 
be  seen. 

"Now  then,  let's  get  a  move  on!"  suggests 
the  Senior  Captain  briskly.  "Cockerell,  ring 
up  the  butts,  and  ask  Captain  Wagstaffe  to 
put  up  the  targets." 

The  alert  Mr.  Cockerell  hurries  to  the  tele- 
phone, which  lives  in  a  small  white-painted 
structure  like  a  gramophone-stand.  (It  has 
been  left  at  the  firing-point  by  the  all-pro- 
viding butt-party.)  He  turns  the  call-handle 
smartly,  takes  the  receiver  out  of  the  box, 
and  begins.  .  .  . 

There  is  no  need  to  describe  the  perform- 
ance which  ensues.  All  telephone-users  are 
familiar  with  it.  It  consists  entirely  of  the 
word  "Hallo!"  repeated  crescendo  and  furi- 
oso  until  exhaustion  supervenes. 


SHOOTING    STEAIGHT  67 

Presently  Mr.  Cockerell  reports  to  the  Cap- 
tain— 

"Telephone  out  of  order,  sir." 

"I  never  knew  a  range  telephone  that 
wasn't,"  replies  the  Captain,  inspecting  the 
instrument.  "Still,  you  might  give  this  one 
a  sporting  chance,  anyhow.  It  isn't  a  wire- 
less telephone,  you  know!  Corporal  Kemp, 
connect  that  telephone  for  Mr.  Cockerell. ' ' 

A  marble-faced  N.C.O.  kneels  solemnly 
upon  the  turf  and  raises  a  small  iron  trap- 
door —  hitherto  overlooked  by  the  omniscient 
Cockerell  —  revealing  a  cavity  some  six  inches 
deep,  containing  an  electric  plug-hole.  Into 
this  he  thrusts  the  terminal  of  the  telephone 
wire.  Cockerell,  scarlet  in  the  face,  watches 
him  indignantly. 

Telephonic  communication  between  firing- 
point  and  butts  is  now  established.  That  is 
to  say,  whenever  Mr.  Cockerell  rings  the  bell 
some  one  in  the  butts  courteously  rings  back. 
Overtures  of  a  more  intimate  nature  are 
greeted  either  with  stony  silence  or  another 
fantasia  on  the  bell. 

Meanwhile  the  captain  is  superintending 
firing  arrangements. 

"Are  the  first  details  ready  to  begin?"  he 
shouts. 

"Quite  ready,  sir,"  runs  the  reply  down 
the  firing  line. 

The  Captain  now  comes  to  the  telephone 
himself.  He  takes  the  receiver  from  Cock- 
erell with  masterful  assurance. 


68     THE   FIEST  HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

61  Hallo,  there!"  lie  calls.  "I  want  to  speak 
to  Captain  Wagstaffe." 

"Honkle  yang-yang?"  inquires  a  ghostly 
voice. 

"Captain  Wagstaffe!    Hurry  up!" 

Presently  the  bell  rings,  and  the  Captain 
gets  to  business. 

"That  you,  Wagstaffe?"  he  inquires  cheer- 
ily. "Look  here,  we're  going  to  fire  Prac- 
tice Seven,  Table  B,  —  snap-shooting.  I 
want  you,  to  raise  all  the  targets  for  six  sec- 
onds, just  for  sighting  purposes.  Do  you 
understand?" 

Here  the  bell  rings  continuously  for  ten 
seconds.  Nothing  daunted,  the  Captain  tries 
again. 

"That  you,  Wagstaffe?  Practice  Seven, 
Table  B!" 

"T'chk,  t'chk!"  replies  Captain  Wagstaffe. 

"Begin  by  raising  all  the  targets  for  six 
seconds.  Then  raise  them  six  times  for  five 
seconds  each  —  no,  as  you  were !  Raise  them 
five  times  for  six  seconds  each.  Got  that? 
I  say,  are  you  there?  What's  that?" 

'  Przemysl!"  replies  the  telephone  —  or 
something  to  that  effect.  "Czestochowa! 
Krzyszkowice!  Ploch!" 

The  Captain,  now  on  his  mettle,  con- 
tinues :  — 

"I  want  you  to  signal  the  results  on  the 
rear  targets  as  the  front  ones  go  down. 
After  that  we  will  fire  —  oh,  curse  the 
thing!" 


SHOOTING   STEAIGHT  69 

He  hastily  removes  the  receiver,  wnich  is 
emitting  sounds  suggestive  of  the  buckling 
of  biscuit-tins,  from  his  ear,  and  lays  it  on 
its  rest.  The  bell  promptly  begins  to  ring 
again. 

"Mr.  Cockerell,"  he  says  resignedly, 
"double  up  to  the  butts  and  ask  Captain 
Wagstaffe " 

"I'm  here,  old  son,"  replies  a  gentle  voice, 
as  Captain  Wagstaffe  touches  him  upon  the 
shoulder.  '  '  Been  here  some  time ! ' ' 

After  mutual  asperities,  it  is  decided  by 
the  two  Captains  to  dispense  with  the  aid  of 
the  telephone  proper,  and  communicate  by 
bell  alone.  Captain  Wagstaffe 's  tall  figure 
strides  back  across  the  heather;  the  red  flag 
on  the  butts  flutters  down;  and  we  get  to 
work. 

Upon  a  long  row  of  waterproof  sheets  — 
some  thirty  in  all  —  lie  the  firers.  Beside 
each  is  extended  the  form  of  a  sergeant  or 
officer,  tickling  his  charge's  ear  with  inco- 
herent counsel,  and  imploring  him,  almost 
tearfully,  not  to  get  excited. 

Suddenly  thirty  targets  spring  out  of  the 
earth  in  front  of  us,  only  to  disappear  again 
just  as  we  have  got  over  our  surprise.  They 
are  not  of  the  usual  bull's-eye  pattern,  but 
are  what  is  known  as  "figure"  targets.  The 
lower  half  is  sea-green,  the  upper,  white.  In 
the  centre,  half  on  the  green  and  half  on  the 
white,  is  a  curious  brown  smudge.  It  might 
be  anything,  from  a  splash  of  mud  to  one 


70     THE   FIRST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

of  those  mysterious  brown-paper  patterns 
which  fall  out  of  ladies'  papers,  but  it  really 
is  intended  to  represent  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  a  man  in  khaki  lying  on  grass  and  aiming 
at  us.  However,  the  British  private,  with  his 
usual  genius  for  misapprehension,  has  chris- 
tened this  effigy  ' l  the  beggar  in  the  boat. ' ' 

With  equal  suddenness  the  targets  swing 
up  again.  Crack!  An  uncontrolled  spirit 
has  loosed  off  his  rifle  before  it  has  reached 
his  shoulder.  Blistering  reproof  follows. 
Then,  after  three  or  four  seconds,  comes  a 
perfect  salvo  all  down  the  line.  The  conscien- 
tious Mucklewame,  slowly  raising  his  fore- 
sight as  he  has  been  taught  to  do,  from  the 
base  of  the  target  to  the  centre,  has  just  cov- 
ered the  beggar  in  the  boat  between  wind  and 
water,  and  is  lingering  lovingly  over  the 
second  pull,  when  the  inconsiderate  beggar 
(and  his  boat)  sink  unostentatiously  into  the 
abyss,  leaving  the  open-mouthed  marksman 
with  his  finger  on  the  trigger  and  an  unfired 
cartridge  still  in  the  chamber.  At  the  den- 
tist 's  Time  crawls ;  in  snap-shooting  contests 
he  sprints. 

Another  set  of  targets  slide  up  as  the  first 
go  down,  and  upon  these  the  hits  are  recorded 
by  a  forest  of  black  or  white  discs,  waving 
vigorously  in  the  air.  Here  and  there  a  red- 
and-white  flag  flaps  derisively.  Mucklewame 
gets  one  of  these. 

The  marking-targets  go  down  to  half-mast 
again,  and  then  comes  another  tense  pause. 


SHOOTING   STEAIGHT  71 

Then,  as  the  firing-targets  reappear,  there  is 
another  volley.  This  time  Private  Muckle- 
wame  leads  the  field,  and  decapitates  a  dande- 
lion. The  third  time  he  has  learned  wisdom, 
and  the  beggar  in  the  boat  gets  the  bullet 
where  all  mocking  foes  should  get  it  —  in 
the  neck ! 

Snap-shooting  over,  the  combatants  retire 
to  the  five-hundred-yards  firing-point,  tak- 
ing with  them  that  modern  hair-shirt,  the 
telephone. 

Presently  a  fresh  set  of  targets  swing  up  — 
of  the  bulPs-eye  variety  this  time  —  and  the 
markers  are  busy  once  more. 


m 


The  interior  of  the  butts  is  an  unexpectedly 
spacious  place.  From  the  nearest  firing-point 
you  would  not  suspect  their  existence,  except 
when  the  targets  are  up.  Imagine  a  sort  of 
miniature  railway  station  —  or  rather,  half  a 
railway  station  —  sunk  into  the  ground,  with 
a  very  long  platform  and  a  very  low  roof  — 
eight  feet  high  at  the  most.  Upon  the  oppo- 
site side  of  this  station,  instead  of  the  other 
platform,  rises  the  sandy  ridge  previously 
mentioned  —  the  stop-butt  —  crowned  with  its 
row  of  number-boards.  Along  the  permanent 
way,  in  place  of  sleepers  and  metals,  runs  a 
long  and  narrow  trough,  in  which,  instead 


72     THE   FIRST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

of  railway  carriages,  some  thirty  great  iron 
frames  are  standing  side  by  side.  These 
frames  are  double,  and  hold  the  targets. 
They  are  so  arranged  that  if  one  is  pushed 
up  the  other  comes  down.  The  markers 
stand  along  the  platform,  like  railway 
porters. 

There  are  two  markers  to  each  target. 
They  stand  with  their  backs  to  the  firers,  com- 
fortably conscious  of  several  feet  of  earth 
and  a  stout  brick  wall  between  them  and  low 
shooters.  Number  one  squats  down,  paste- 
pot  in  hand,  and  repairs  the  bullet-holes  in 
the  unemployed  target  with  patches  of  black 
or  white  paper.  Number  two,  brandishing  a 
pole  to  which  is  attached  a  disc,  black  on  one 
side  and  white  on  the  other,  is  acquiring  a 
permanent  crick  in  the  neck  through  gaping 
upwards  at  the  target  in  search  of  hits.  He 
has  to  be  sharp-eyed,  for  the  bullet-hole  is  a 
small  one,  and  springs  into  existence  without 
any  other  intimation  than  a  spirt  of  sand  on 
the  bank  twenty  yards  behind.  He  must  be 
alert,  too,  and  signal  the  shots  as  they  are 
made;  otherwise  the  telephone  will  begin  to 
interest  itself  on  his  behalf.  The  bell  will 
ring,  and  a  sarcastic  voice  will  intimate — • 
assuming  that  you  can  hear  what  it  says  — 
that  C  Company  are  sending  a  wreath  and 
message  of  condolence  as  their  contribution  to 
the  funeral  of  the  marker  at  Number  Seven 
target,  who  appears  to  have  died  at  his  post 
within  the  last  ten  minutes;  coupled  with  a 


SHOOTING   STRAIGHT  73 

polite  request  that  Ms  successor  may  be  ap- 
pointed as  rapidly  as  possible,  as  the  war  is 
not  likely  to  last  more  than  three  years.  To 
this  the  butt-officer  replies  that  C  Company 
had  better  come  a  bit  closer  to  the  target  and 
try,  try  again. 

There  are  practically  no  restrictions  as  to 
the  length  to  which  one  may  go  in  insulting 
butt-markers.  The  Geneva  Convention  is 
silent  upon  the  subject,  partly  because  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  say  anything  which  can 
really  hurt  a  marker's  feelings,  and  partly 
because  the  butt-officer  always  has  the  last 
word  in  any  unpleasantness  which  may  arise. 
That  is  to  say,  when  defeated  over  the  tele- 
phone, he  can  always  lower  his  targets,  and 
with  his  myrmidons  feign  abstraction  or 
insensibility  until  an  overheated  subaltern 
arrives  at  the  double  from  the  five-hun- 
dred-yards firing-point,  conveying  news  of 
surrender. 

Captain  Wagstaffe  was  an  admitted  master 
of  this  game.  He  was  a  difficult  subject  to 
handle,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  return  an 
eye  for  an  eye  when  repartees  were  being 
exchanged;  and  when  overborne  by  heavier 
metal  —  say,  a  peripatetic  "brass-hat"  from 
Hythe  —  he  was  accustomed  to  haul  up  the 
red  butt-flag  (which  automatically  brings  all 
firing  to  a  standstill),  and  stroll  down  the 
range  to  refute  the  intruder  at  close  quarters. 
We  must  add  that  he  was  a  most  efficient 
butt-officer.  When  he  was  on  duty,  markers 


74     THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND' 


were  most  assiduous  in  their  attention  to 
theirs,  which  is  not  always  the  case. 

Thomas  Atkins  rather  enjoys  marking.  For 
one  thing,  he  is  permitted  to  remove  as  much 
clothing  as  he  pleases,  and  to  cover  himself 
with  stickiness  and  grime  to  his  heart's  con- 
tent —  always  a  highly  prized  privilege.  He 
is  also  allowed  to  smoke,  to  exchange  full- 
flavoured  persiflage  with  his  neighbours,  and 
to  refresh  himself  from  time  to  time  with 
mysterious  items  of  provender  wrapped  in 
scraps  of  newspaper.  Given  an  easy-going 
butt-officer  and  some  timid  subalterns,  he  can 
spend  a  very  agreeable  morning.  Even  when 
discipline  is  strict,  marking  is  preferable  to 
most  other  fatigues. 

Crack!  Crack!  Crack!  The  fusilade  has 
begun.  Privates  Ogg  and  Hogg  are  in  charge 
of  Number  Thirteen  target.  They  are  beguil- 
ing the  tedium  of  their  task  by  a  friendly 
gamble  with  the  markers  on  Number  Fourteen 
—  Privates  Cosh  and  Tosh.  The  rules  of  the 
game  are  simplicity  itself.  After  each  detail 
has  fired,  the  target  with  the  higher  score 
receives  the  sum  of  one  penny  from  its  op- 
ponents. At  the  present  moment,  after  a  long 
run  of  adversity,  Privates  Cosh  and  Tosh  are 
one  penny  to  the  good.  Once  again  fortune 
smiles  upon  them.  The  first  two  shots  go 
right  through  the  bull  —  eight  points  straight 
away.  The  third  is  an  inner;  the  fourth 
another  bull;  the  fifth  just  grazes  the  line 
separating  inners  from  outers.  Private 


SHOOTING   STEAIGHT  75 

Tosh,  who  is  scoring,  promptly  signals  an 
inner.  Meanwhile,  target  Number  Thirteen  is 
also  being  liberally  marked  —  but  by  nothing 
of  a  remunerative  nature.  The  gentleman  at 
the  firing-point  is  taking  what  is  known  as  "  a 
fine  sight"  —  so  fine,  indeed,  that  each  suc- 
cessive bullet  either  buries  itself  in  the  turf 
fifty  yards  short,  or  ricochets  joyously  from 
off  the  bank  in  front,  hurling  itself  sideways 
through  the  target,  accompanied  by  a  storm  of 
gravel,  and  tearing  holes  therein  which  even 
the  biassed  Ogg  cannot  class  as  clean  hits. 

"We  hae  gotten  eighteen  that  time,"  an- 
nounces Mr.  Tosh  to  his  rival,  swinging  his 
disc  and  inwardly  blessing  his  unknown  bene- 
factor. (For  obvious  reasons  the  firer  is 
known  only  to  the  marker  by  a  number.) 
"Hoo's  a'  wi'  you,  Jock?" 

"There's  a  [adjective]  body  here,"  replies 
Ogg,  with  gloomy  sarcasm,  "flingin'  bricks 
through  this  yin!"  He  picks  up  the  red-and- 
white  flag  for  the  fourth  time,  and  unfurls  it 
indignantly  to  the  breeze. 

"Here  the  officer!"  says  the  warning  voice 
of  Hogg.  "I  doot  he'll  no  allow  your  last 
yin,  Peter." 

He  is  right.  The  subaltern  in  charge  of 
targets  Thirteen  to  Sixteen,  after  a  pained 
glance  at  the  battered  countenance  of  Number 
Thirteen,  pauses  before  Fourteen,  and  jots 
down  a  figure  on  his  butt-register. 

"Fower,  fower,  fower,  three,  three,  sirr," 
announces  Tosh  politely. 


76     THE    FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

" Three  bulls,  one  inner,  and  an  ahter,  sir," 
proclaims  the  Cockney  sergeant  simultaneously. 

"Now,  suppose  /  try,"  suggests  the  sub- 
altern gently. 

He  examines  the  target,  promptly  disallows 
Tosh's  last  inner,  and  passes  on. 

"Seventeen  only!"  remarks  Private  Ogg 
severely.  ' '  I  thocht  sae ! ' ' 

Private  Cosh  speaks  —  for  the  first  time  — 
removing  a  paste-brush  and  some  patching- 
paper  from  his  mouth  — 

"Still,  it's  better  nor  a  wash-oot!  And 
onyway,  you're  due  us  tippence  the  noo!" 

By  way  of  contrast  to  the  frivolous  game  of 
chance  in  the  butts,  the  proceedings  at  the 
firing-point  resolve  themselves  into  a  des- 
perately earnest  test  of  skill.  The  fortnight's 
range-practice  is  drawing  to  a  close.  Each 
evening  registers  have  been  made  up,  and 
firing  averages  adjusted,  with  the  result  that 
A  and  D  Companies  are  found  to  have  en- 
tirely outdistanced  B  and  C,  and  to  be  running 
neck  and  neck  for  the  championship  of  the 
battalion.  Up  till  this  morning  D's  average 
worked  out  at  something  under  fifteen  (out  of 
a  possible  twenty),  and  A's  at  something  over 
fourteen  points.  Both  are  quite  amazing  and 
incredible  averages  for  a  recruits'  course; 
but  then  nearly  everything  about  "K(l)"  is 
amazing  and  incredible.  Up  till  half  an  hour 
ago  D  had,  if  anything,  increased  their  lead: 
then  dire  calamity  overtook  them. 


SHOOTING   STRAIGHT  77 

One  Pumpherston,  Sergeant-Major  and 
crack  shot  of  the  Company,  solemnly  blows 
down  the  barrel  of  his  rifle  and  prostrates 
himself  majestically  upon  his  more  than  con- 
siderable stomach,  for  the  purpose  of  firing 
his  five  rounds  at  five  hundred  yards.  His 
average  score  so  far  has  been  one  under  "pos- 
sible." Three  officers  and  a  couple  of  stray 
corporals  gather  behind  him  in  eulogistic 
attitudes. 

"How  are  the  Company  doing  generally, 
Sergeant-Ma jor?"  inquires  the  Captain  of  D 
Company. 

"Very  well,  sirr,  except  for  some  careless- 
ness, "  replies  the  great  man  impressively. 
*  '  That  man  there ' '  —  he  indicates  a  shrinking 
figure  hurrying  rearwards  —  "has  just  spoilt 
his  own  score  and  another  man's  by  putting 
two  shots  on  the  wrong  target." 

There  is  a  horrified  hum  at  this,  for  to  fire 
upon  some  one  else's  target  is  the  gravest 
crime  in  musketry.  In  the  first  place,  it  counts 
a  miss  for  yourself.  In  the  second,  it  may  do 
a  grievous  wrong  to  your  neighbour;  for  the 
law  ordains  that,  in  the  event  of  more  than  five 
shots  being  found  upon  any  target,  only  the 
worst  five  shall  count.  Therefore,  if  your  un- 
solicited contribution  takes  the  form  of  an 
outer,  it  must  be  counted,  to  the  exclusion,  pos- 
sibly, of  a  bull.  The  culprit  broke  into  a  double. 

Having  delivered  himself,  Sergeant-Major 
Pumpherston  graciously  accepted  the  charger 
of  cartridges  which  an  obsequious  acolyte  was 


78     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

proffering,  rammed  it  into  the  magazine,  ad- 
justed the  sights,  spread  out  his  legs  to  an 
obtuse  angle,  and  fired  his  first  shot. 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  target  Number 
Seven.  But  there  was  no  signal.  All  the 
other  markers  were  busy  flourishing  discs  or 
flags ;  only  Number  Seven  remained  cold  and 
aloof. 

The  Captain  of  D  Company  laughed  satiri- 
cally. 

"Number  Seven  gone  to  have  his  haircut!" 
he  observed. 

"Third  time  this  morning,  sir,"  added  a 
sycophantic  subaltern. 

The  sergeant-major  smiled  indulgently. 

"I  can  do  without  signals,  sir,"  he  said. 
"I  know  where  the  shot  went  all  right.  I 
must  get  the  next  a  little  more  to  the  left. 
That  last  one  was  a  bit  too  near  to  three 
o'clock  to  be  a  certainty." 

He  fired  again  —  with  precisely  the  same 
result. 

Every  one  was  quite  apologetic  to  the  ser- 
geant-major this  time. 

"This  must  be  stopped,"  announced  the 
Captain.  "Mr.  Simson,  ring  up  Captain 
Wagstaffe  on  the  telephone." 

But  the  sergeant-major  would  not  hear  of 
this. 

"The  butt-registers  are  good  enough  for 
me,  sir,"  he  said  with  a  paternal  smile.  He 
fired  again.  Once  more  the  target  stared  back, 
blank  and  unresponsive. 


SHOOTING   STEAIGHT  79 

This  time  the  audience  were  too  disgusted 
to  speak.  They  merely  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders and  glanced  at  one  another  with  sar- 
castic smiles.  The  Captain,  who  had  suffered 
a  heavy  reverse  at  the  hands  of  Captain 
Wagstaffe  earlier  in  the  morning,  began  to 
rehearse  the  wording  of  his  address  over  the 
telephone. 

The  sergeant-major  fired  his  last  two  shots 
with  impressive  aplomb  —  only  to  be  abso- 
lutely ignored  twice  more  by  Number  Seven. 
Then  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  saluted  with  os- 
tentatious respectfulness. 

"Four  bulls  and  one  inner,  I  think, 
sir.  I'm  afraid  I  pulled  that  last  one  off  a 
bit." 

The  Captain  is  already  at  the  telephone. 
For  the  moment  this  most  feminine  of  instru- 
ments is  found  to  be  in  an  accommodating 
frame  of  mind.  Captain  Wagstaffe's  voice  is 
quickly  heard. 

"That  you,  Wagstaffe?"  inquires  the  Cap- 
tain. "I'm  so  sorry  to  bother  you,  but  could 
you  make  inquiries  and  ascertain  when  the 
marker  on  Number  Seven  is  likely  to  come  out 
of  the  chloroform?" 

"He  has  been  sitting  up  and  taking  nour- 
ishment for  some  hours,"  replies  the  voice  of 
Wagstaffe.  "What  message  can  I  deliver  to 
him?" 

"None  in  particular,  except  that  he  has  not 
signalled  a  single  one  of  Sergeant-Major  Pum- 


80     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

pherston's  shots !"  replies  the  Captain  of  D, 
with  crushing  simplicity. 

"Half  a  mo'!"  replies  Wagstaffe.  .  ,  . 
Then,  presently  — 

' '  Hallo !    Are  you  there,  Whitson  f ' ' 

' '  Yes.  We  are  still  here, ' '  Captain  Whitson 
assures  him  frigidly. 

"Eight.  Well,  I  have  examined  Number 
Seven  target,  and  there  are  no  shots  on  it  of 
any  kind  whatever.  But  there  are  ten  shots 
on  Number  Eight,  if  that's  any  help.  Buck  up 
with  the  next  lot,  will  you?  We  are  getting 
rather  bored  here.  So  long ! ' ' 

There  was  nothing  in  it  now.  D  Company 
had  finished.  The  last  two  representatives  of 
A  were  firing,  and  subalterns  with  note-books 
were  performing  prodigies  of  arithmetic. 
Bobby  Little  calculated  that  if  these  two 
scored  eighteen  points  each  they  would  pull 
the  Company's  total  average  up  to  fifteen  pre- 
cisely, beating  D  by  a  decimal. 

The  two  slender  threads  upon  which  the  suc- 
cess of  this  enterprise  hung  were  named  Lind- 
say and  Budge.  Lindsay  was  a  phlegmatic 
youth  with  watery  eyes.  Nothing  disturbed 
him,  which  was  fortunate,  for  the  commotion 
which  surrounded  him  was  considerable.  A 
stout  sergeant  lay  beside  him  on  a  waterproof 
sheet,  whispering  excited  counsels  of  perfec- 
tion, while  Bobby  Little  danced  in  the  rear, 
beseeching  him  to  fire  upon  the  proper  target. 

"Now,  Lindsay,"  said  Captain  Whitson,  in 


SHOOTING   STEAIGHT  81 

a  trembling  voice,  "you  are  going  to  get  into 
a  good  comfortable  position,  take  your  time, 
and  score  five  bulls/' 

The  amazing  part  of  it  all  was  that  Lindsay 
very  nearly  did  score  five  bulls.  He  actually 
got  four,  and  would  have  had  a  fifth  had  not 
the  stout  sergeant,  in  excess  of  solicitude, 
tenderly  wiped  his  watery  eye  for  him  with  a 
grubby  handkerchief  just  as  he  took  the  first 
pull  for  his  third  shot. 

Altogether  he  scored  nineteen;  and  the 
gallery,  full  of  congratulations,  moved  on  to 
inspect  the  performance  of  Private  Budge,  an 
extremely  nervous  subject:  who,  thanks  to 
the  fact  that  public  attention  had  been  con- 
centrated so  far  upon  Lindsay,  and  that  his 
ministering  sergeant  was  a  matter-of-fact  in- 
dividual of  few  words,  had  put  on  two  bulls  — • 
eight  points.  He  now  required  to  score  only 
nine  points  in  three  shots. 

Suddenly  the  hapless  youth  became  aware 
of  the  breathless  group  in  his  rear.  He 
promptly  pulled  his  trigger,  and  just  flicked 
the  outside  edge  of  the  target  —  two  points. 

"I  doot  I'm  gettin'  a  thing  nairvous,"  he 
muttered  apologetically  to  the  sergeant. 

"Havers!  Shut  your  heid  and  give  the 
bull  a  bash!"  responded  that  admirable 
person. 

The  twitching  Budge,  bracing  himself, 
scored  an  inner  —  three  points. 

"A  bull,  and  we  do  it!"  murmured  Bobby 
Little.  Fortunately  Budge  did  not  hear. 


82     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"Ye 're  no  daen  badly,"  admitted  the  ser- 
geant grudgingly. 

Budge,  a  little  piqued,  determined  to  do 
better.  He  raised  his  foresight  slowly;  took 
the  first  pull;  touched  "six  o 'clock "  on  the 
distant  bull  —  luckily  the  light  was  perfect  — 
and  took  the  second  pull  for  the  last  time. 

Next  moment  a  white  disc  rose  slowly  out 
of  the  earth  and  covered  the  bull's-eye. 

So  Bobby  Little  was  able  next  morning  to 
congratulate  his  disciples  upon  being  "the 
best-shooting  platoon  in  the  best-shooting 
Company  in  the  best-shooting  Battalion  in  the 
Brigade. ' ' 

Not  less  than  fifty  other  subalterns  within 
a  radius  of  five  miles  were  saying  the  same 
thing  to  their  platoons.  It  is  right  to  foster  a 
spirit  of  emulation  in  young  troops. 


VIII 

BILLETS 

Scene,  a  village  street,  deserted.  Rain  falls.  (It  has 
been  falling  for  about  three  weeks.)  A  tucket 
sounds.  Enter,  reluctantly,  soldiery.  They 
grouse.  There  appear  severally,  in  doorways,  chil- 
dren. They  stare.  And  at  chamber-windows, 
serving-maids.  They  make  eyes.  The  soldiery 
make  friendly  signs. 

SUCH  is  the  stage  setting  for  our  daily  morn- 
ing parade.  We  have  been  here  for  some 
weeks  now,  and  the  populace  is  getting  used 
to  us.  But  when  we  first  burst  upon  this 
peaceful  township  I  think  we  may  say,  with- 
out undue  egoism,  that  we  created  a  pro- 
found sensation.  In  this  sleepy  corner  of 
Hampshire  His  Majesty's  uniform,  enclosing 
a  casual  soldier  or  sailor  on  furlough,  is  a 
common  enough  sight,  but  a  whole  regiment 
on  the  march  is  the  rarest  of  spectacles.  As 
for  this  tatterdemalion  northern  horde,  which 
swept  down  the  street  a  few  Sundays  ago, 
with  kilts  swinging,  bonnets  cocked,  and 
pipes  skirling,  as  if  they  were  actually  re- 


84     THE   FIEST   HOTTDKED   THOUSAND 

turning  from  a  triumphant  campaign  instead 
of  only  rehearsing  for  one  —  well,  as  I  say, 
the  inhabitants  had  never  seen  anything  like 
us  in  the  world  before.  We  achieved  a  succes 
fou.  In  fact,  we  were  quite  embarrassed  by 
the  attention  bestowed  upon  us.  During  our 
first  few  parades  the  audience  could  with 
difficulty  be  kept  off  the  stage.  It  was  im- 
possible to  get  the  children  into  school,  or 
the  maids  to  come  in  and  make  the  beds. 
Whenever  a  small  boy  spied  an  officer,  he 
stood  in  his  way  and  saluted  him.  Dogs 
enlisted  in  large  numbers,  sitting  down  with 
an  air  of  pleased  expectancy  in  the  super- 
numerary rank,  and  waiting  for  this  new  and 
delightful  pastime  to  take  a  fresh  turn.  When 
we  marched  out  to  our  training  area,  later  in 
the  day,  infant  schools  were  decanted  on  to 
the  road  under  a  beaming  vicar,  to  utter 
what  we  took  to  be  patriotic  sounds  and  wave 
handkerchiefs. 

Off  duty,  we  fraternised  with  the  inhab- 
itants. The  language  was  a  difficulty,  of 
course;  but  a  great  deal  can  be  done  by 
mutual  goodwill  and  a  few  gestures.  It  would 
have  warmed  the  heart  of  a  philologist  to 
note  the  success  with  which  a  couple  of 
kilted  heroes  from  the  banks  of  Loch  Lo- 
mond would  sidle  up  to  two  giggling  damo- 
sels  of  Hampshire  at  the  corner  of  the  High 
Street,  by  the  post  office,  and  invite  them 
to  come  for  a  walk.  Though  it  was  ob- 
vious that  neither  party  could  understand 


BILLETS  85 

a  single  word  that  the  other  was  saying, 
they  never  failed  to  arrive  at  an  under- 
standing; and  the  quartette,  having  formed 
two-deep,  would  disappear  into  a  gloaming 
as  black  as  ink,  to  inhale  the  evening  air 
and  take  sweet  counsel  together  —  at  a  tem- 
perature of  about  twenty-five  degrees  Fahr- 
enheit. 

You  ought  to  see  us  change  guard.  A 
similar  ceremony  takes  place,  we  believe, 
outside  Buckingham  Palace  every  morning, 
and  draws  a  considerable  crowd;  but  you 
simply  cannot  compare  it  with  ours.  How 
often  does  the  guard  at  Buckingham  Palace 
fix  bayonets?  Once!  and  the  thing  is  over. 
It  is  hardly  worth  while  turning  out  to  see. 
We  sometimes  do  it  as  much  as  seven  or 
eight  times  before  we  get  it  right,  and  even 
then  we  only  stop  because  the  sergeant-in- 
charge  is  threatened  with  clergyman's  sore 
throat.  The  morning  Private  Mucklewame 
fixed  his  bayonet  for  the  first  time,  two  small 
boys  stayed  away  from  school  all  day  in  order 
to  see  him  unfix  it  when  he  came  off  guard 
in  the  afternoon.  Has  any  one  ever  done 
that  at  Buckingham  Palace? 

However,  as  I  say,  they  have  got  used  to 
us  now.  We  fall  in  for  our  diurnal  labours 
in  comparative  solitude,  usually  in  heavy 
rain  and  without  pomp.  We  are  fairly  into 
the  collar  by  this  time.  We  have  been  worked 
desperately  hard  for  more  than  four  months ; 
we  are  grunting  doggedly  away  at  our  job, 


86     THE   FIEST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 

not  because  we  like  it,  but  because  we 
know  it  is  the  only  thing  to  do.  To  march, 
to  dig,  to  extend,  to  close;  to  practise  ad- 
vance-guards and  rear-guards,  and  pickets, 
in  fair  weather  or  foul,  often  with  empty 
stomachs  —  that  is  our  daily  and  sometimes 
our  nightly  programme.  We  are  growing 
more  and  more  efficient,  and  our  powers  of 
endurance  are  increasing.  But,  as  already 
stated,  we  no  longer  go  about  our  task  like 
singing  birds. 

It  is  a  quarter  to  nine  in  the  morning. 
All  down  the  street  doors  are  opening,  and 
men  appear,  tugging  at  their  equipment. 
|(Yes,  we  are  partially  equipped  now.)  Most 
of  B  Company  live  in  this  street.  They  are 
fortunate,  for  only  two  or  three  are  billeted 
in  each  little  house,  where  they  are  quite 
domestic  pets  by  this  time.  Their  billeting 
includes  "  subsistence, "  which  means  that 
they  are  catered  for  by  an  experienced  female 
instead  of  a  male  cooking-class  still  in  the 
elementary  stages  of  its  art. 

"A"  are  not  so  fortunate.  They  are 
living  in  barns  or  hay-lofts,  sleeping  on  the 
floor,  eating  on  the  floor,  existing  on  the 
floor  generally.  Their  food  is  cooked  (by  the 
earnest  band  of  students  aforementioned)  in 
open-air  camp-kitchens;  and  in  this  weather 
it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  keep  the  fires 
alight,  and  not  always  possible  to  kindle 
them. 

"D"  are  a  shade  better  off.    They  occupy 


BILLETS  87 

a  large  empty  mansion  at  the  end  of  the 
street.  It  does  not  contain  a  stick  of  furni- 
ture; but  there  are  fireplaces  (with  Adam 
mantelpieces),  and  the  one  thing  of  which 
the  War  Office  never  seems  to  stint  us  is 
coal.  So  "D"  are  warm,  anyhow.  Thirty 
men  live  in  the  drawing-room.  Its  late  tenant 
would  probably  be  impressed  with  its  new 
scheme  of  upholstery.  On  the  floor,  straw 
palliasses  and  gravy.  On  the  walls,  "ciga- 
rette photties"  —  by  the  way,  the  children 
down  here  call  them  "fag  picters."  Across 
the  room  run  clothes-lines,  bearing  steaming 
garments  (and  tell  it  not  in  Gath!)  an  occa- 
sional hare  skin. 

"C"  are  billeted  in  a  village  two  miles 
away,  and  we  see  them  but  rarely. 

The  rain  has  ceased  for  a  brief  space  — 
it  always  does  about  parade  time  —  and  we 
accordingly  fall  in.  The  men  are  carrying 
picks  and  shovels,  and  make  no  attempt  to 
look  pleased  at  the  circumstance.  They  real- 
ise that  they  are  in  for  a  morning's  hard 
digging,  and  very  likely  for  an  evening's 
field  operations  as  well.  When  we  began 
company  training  a  few  weeks  ago,  entrench- 
ing was  rather  popular.  More  than  half  of 
us  are  miners  or  tillers  of  the  soil,  and  the 
pick  and  shovel  gave  us  a  home-like  sensa- 
tion. Here  was  a  chance,  too,  of  showing 
regular  soldiers  how  a  job  should  be  prop- 
erly accomplished.  So  we  dug  with  great 
enthusiasm. 


88     THE   PIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

But  A  Company  have  got  over  that  now. 
They  have  developed  into  sufficiently  old 
soldiers  to  have  acquired  the  correct  military 
attitude  towards  manual  labour.  Trench- 
digging  is  a  "fatigue,"  to  be  classed  with 
coal-carrying,  floor-scrubbing,  and  other  civil- 
ian pursuits.  The  word  "fatigue"  is  a 
shibboleth  with  the  British  private.  Per- 
suade him  that  a  task  is  part  of  his  duty 
as  a  soldier,  and  he  will  perform  it  with 
tolerable  cheerfulness ;  but  once  allow  him  to 
regard  that  task  as  a  "fatigue,"  and  he  will 
shirk  it  whenever  possible,  and  regard  him- 
self as  a  deeply  injured  individual  when  called 
upon  to  undertake  it.  Our  battalion  has 
now  reached  a  sufficient  state  of  maturity 
to  be  constantly  on  the  qui  vive  for  cun- 
ningly disguised  fatigues.  The  other  day, 
when  kilts  were  issued  for  the  first  time,  Pri- 
vate Tosh,  gloomily  surveying  his  newly  un- 
veiled extremities,  was  heard  to  remark  with 
a  sigh  — 

1  '  Anither  fatigue !    Knees  tae  wash  noo ! ' ' 

Presently  Captain  Blaikie  arrives  upon  the 
scene;  the  senior  subaltern  reports  all  pre^- 
ent,  and  we  tramp  off  through  the  mud  to  our 
training  area. 

We  are  more  or  less  in  possession  of  our 
proper  equipment  now.  That  is  to  say, 
our  wearing  apparel  and  the  appurtenances 
thereof  are  no  longer  held  in  position  with 
string.  The  men  have  belts,  pouches,  and 


BILLETS  89 

slings  in  which  to  carry  their  greatcoats.  The 
greatcoats  were  the  last  to  materialise.  Since 
their  arrival  we  have  lost  in  decorative  effect 
what  we  have  gained  in  martial  appearance. 
For  a  month  or  two  each  man  wore  over  his 
uniform  during  wet  weather  —  in  other  words, 
all  day  —  a  garment  which  the  Army  Ord- 
nance Department  described  as  —  "Great- 
coat, Civilian,  one."  An  Old  Testament 
writer  would  have  termed  it  "a  coat  of  many 
colours."  A  tailor  would  have  said  that  it 
was  a  "superb  vicuna  raglan  sack."  You 
and  I  would  have  called  it,  quite  simply,  a 
reach-me-down.  Anyhow,  the  combined  effect 
was  unique.  As  we  plodded  patiently  along 
the  road  in  our  tarnished  finery,  with  our  eye- 
arresting  checks  and  imitation  velvet  collars, 
caked  with  mud  and  wrinkled  with  rain,  we 
looked  like  nothing  so  much  on  earth  as  a 
gang  of  welshers  returning  from  an  unsuc- 
cessful day  at  a  suburban  race-meeting. 

But  now  the  kKaki-mills  have  ground  out 
another  million  yards  or  so,  and  we  have 
regulation  greatcoats.  Water-bottles,  haver- 
sacks, mess-tins,  and  waterproof  sheets  have 
been  slowly  filtering  into  our  possession ;  and 
whenever  we  "mobilise,"  which  we  do  as  a 
rule  about  once  a  fortnight  —  whether  owing 
to  invasion  scares  or  as  a  test  of  efficiency  we 
do  not  know  —  we  fall  in  on  our  alarm-posts 
in  something  distinctly  resembling  the  full 
"Christmas-tree"  rig.  Sam  Browne  belts 
have  been  wisely  discarded  by  the  officers 


90     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

in  favonr  of  web-equipment;  and  although 
Bobby  Little 's  shoulders  ache  with  the  weight 
of  his  pack,  he  is  comfortably  conscious  of 
two  things  —  firstly,  that  even  when  separ- 
ated from  his  baggage  he  can  still  subsist 
in  fair  comfort  on  what  he  carries  upon  his 
person;  and  secondly,  that  his  " expectation 
of  life/'  as  the  insurance  offices  say,  has  in- 
creased about  a  hundred  per  cent,  now  that 
the  German  sharpshooters  will  no  longer  be 
able  to  pick  him  out  from  his  men. 

Presently  we  approach  the  scene  of  our 
day's  work,  Area  Number  Fourteen.  We 
are  now  far  advanced  in  company  training. 
The  barrack  square  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Commands  are  no  longer  preceded  by  cau- 
tions and  explanations.  A  note  on  a  whistle, 
followed  by  a  brusque  word  or  gesture,  is 
sufficient  to  set  us  smartly  on  the  move. 

Suddenly  we  are  called  upon  to  give  a  test 
of  our  quality.  A  rotund  figure  upon  horse- 
back appears  at  a  bend  in  the  road.  Captain 
Blaikie  recognises  General  Freeman. 

(We  may  note  that  the  General's  name  is 
not  really  Freeman.  We  are  much  harried 
by  generals  at  present.  They  roam  about 
the  country  on  horseback,  and  ask  company 
commanders  what  they  are  doing;  and  no 
company  commander  has  ever  yet  succeeded 
in  framing  an  answer  which  sounds  in  the 
least  degree  credible.  There  are  three  gen- 
erals; we  call  them  Freeman,  Hardy,  and 
Willis,  because  we  suspect  that  they  are  all 


BILLETS  91 

—  to  judge  from  their  fondness  for  keeping 
us  on  the  run  —  financially  interested  in  the 
consumption  of  shoe-leather.  In  other  re- 
spects they  differ,  and  a  wise  company  com- 
mander will  carefully  bear  their  idiosyn- 
crasies in  mind  and  act  accordingly,  if  he 
wishes  to  be  regarded  as  an  intelligent  officer.) 

Freeman  is  a  man  of  action.  He  likes  to 
see  people  running  about.  When  he  appears 
upon  the  horizon  whole  battalions  break  into 
a  double. 

Hardy  is  one  of  the  old  school:  he  likes 
things  done  decently  and  in  order.  He  wor- 
ships bright  buttons,  and  exact  words  of  com- 
mand, and  a  perfectly  wheeling  line.  He 
mistrusts  unconventional  movements  and  in- 
dividual tactics.  "No  use  trying  to  run,"  he 
says,  "before  you  can  walk."  When  we  see 
him,  we  dress  the  company  and  advance  in 
review  order. 

Willis  gives  little  trouble.  He  seldom  criti- 
cises, but  when  he  does  his  criticism  is  always 
of  a  valuable  nature;  and  he  is  particularly 
courteous  and  helpful  to  young  officers.  But, 
like  lesser  men,  he  has  his  fads.  These  are 
two  —  feet  and  cookery.  He  has  been  known 
to  call  a  private  out  of  the  ranks  on  a  route- 
march  and  request  him  to  take  his  boots  off 
for  purposes  of  public  display.  "A  soldier 
marches  on  two  things,"  he  announces  —  "his 
feet  and  his  stomach."  Then  he  calls  up 
another  man  and  asks  him  if  he  knows  how 
to  make  a  sea-pie.  The  man  never  does 


92     THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

know,  which  is  fortunate,  for  otherwise  Gen- 
eral Willis  would  not  be  able  to  tell  him. 
After  that  he  trots  happily  away,  to  ask  some 
one  else. 

However,  here  we  are  face  to  face  with 
General  Freeman.  Immediate  action  is  called 
for.  Captain  Blaikie  flings  an  order  over  his 
shoulder  to  the  subaltern  in  command  of  the 
leading  platoon  — 

"Pass  back  word  that  this  road  is  under 
shell  fire.  Move ! ' ' 

—  and  rides  forward  to  meet  the  General. 

In  ten  seconds  the  road  behind  him  is  abso- 
lutely clear,  and  the  men  are  streaming  out  to 
right  and  left  in  half -platoons.  WaddelPs 
platoon  has  the  hardest  time,  for  they  were 
passing  a  quickset  hedge  when  the  order 
came.  However,  they  hurl  themselves  blas- 
phemously through,  and  double  on,  scratched 
and  panting. 

"Good  morning,  sir!"  says  Captain  Blaikie, 
saluting. 

"Good  morning!"  says  General  Freeman. 
"What  was  that  last  movement?" 

"The  men  are  taking  'artillery'  formation, 
sir.  I  have  just  passed  the  word  down  that 
the  road  is  under  shell  fire. ' ' 

"Quite  so.  But  don't  you  think  you  ought 
to  keep  some  of  your  company  in  rear,  as  a 
supporting  line?  I  see  you  have  got  them 
all  up  on  one  front. ' ' 

By  this  time  A  Company  is  advancing  in 
its  original  direction,  but  split  up  into  eight 


BILLETS  93 

half -platoons  in  single  file  —  four  on  each  side 
of  the  road,  at  intervals  of  thirty  yards.  The 
movement  has  been  quite  smartly  carried 
out.  Still,  a  critic  must  criticise  or  go  out 
of  business.  However,  Captain  Blaikie  is  an 
old  hand. 

"I  was  assuming  that  my  company  formed 
part  of  a  battalion,  sir,"  he  explained. 
"  There  are  supposed  to  be  three  other  com- 
panies in  rear  of  mine. ' ' 

"I  see.  Still,  tell  two  of  your  sections  to 
fall  back  and  form  a  supporting  line." 

Captain  Blaikie,  remembering  that  generals 
have  little  time  for  study  of  such  works  as 
the  new  drill-book,  and  that  when  General 
Freeman  says  " section"  he  probably  means 
" platoon,"  orders  Numbers  Two  and  Four  to 
fall  back.  This  manoauvre  is  safely  accom- 
plished. 

"Now,  let  me  see  them  close  on  the 
road." 

Captain  Blaikie  blows  a  whistle,  and  slaps 
himself  on  the  top  of  the  head.  In  three 
minutes  the  long-suffering  platoons  are  back 
on  the  road,  extracting  thorns  from  their 
flesh  and  assuaging  the  agony  of  their 
abrasions  by  clandestine  massage. 

General  Freeman  rides  away,  and  the 
column  moves  on.  Two  minutes  later  Captain 
Wagstaffe  doubles  up  from  the  rear  to  an- 
nounce that  General  Hardy  is  only  two  hun- 
dred yards  behind. 

"Pass   back  word  to   the   men,"   groans 


94     THE  FIEST  HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Captain  Blaikie,  "to  march  at  attention,  put 
their  caps  straight,  and  slope  their  shovels 
properly.  And  send  an  orderly  to  that  hill- 
top to  look  out  for  General  Willis.  Tell  him 
to  unlace  his  boots  when  he  gets  there,  and  on 
no  account  to  admit  that  he  knows  how  to 
make  a  sea-pie  1" 


IX 

MID-CHANNEL 

THE  Great  War  has  been  terribly  Hard  on 
the  text-books. 

When  we  began  to  dig  trenches,  many  weeks 
ago,  we  always  selected  a  site  with  a  good 
field  of  fire. 

"No  good  putting  your  trenches,"  said  the 
text-book,  "where  you  can't  see  the  enemy." 

This  seemed  only  common-sense ;  so  we  dug 
our  trenches  in  open  plains,  or  on  the  forward 
slope  of  a  hill,  where  we  could  command  the 
enemy's  movements  up  to  two  thousand 
yards. 

Another  maxim  which  we  were  urged  to 
take  to  heart  was  —  When  not  entrenched, 
always  take  advantage  of  natural  cover  of 
any  kind;  such  as  farm  buildings,  planta- 
tions, and  railway  embankments. 

We  were  also  given  practice  in  describing 
and  recognising  inconspicuous  targets  at  long 
range,  in  order  to  be  able  to  harass  the  enemy 
the  moment  he  showed  himself. 

Well,  recently  generals  and  staff  officers 


96     THE   FIBST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

have  been  coming  home  from  the  front  and 
giving  us  lectures.  We  regard  most  lectures 
as  a  "fatigue"  —  but  not  these.  We  have 
learned  more  from  these  quiet-mannered, 
tired-looking  men  in  a  brief  hour  than  from  all 
the  manuals  that  ever  came  out  of  Gale  and 
Poldens'.  We  have  heard  the  history  of  the 
War  from  the  inside.  We  know  why  our 
Army  retreated  from  Mons;  we  know  what 
prevented  the  relief  of  Antwerp.  But  above 
all,  we  have  learned  to  revise  some  of  our 
most  cherished  theories. 

Briefly,  the  amended  version  of  the  law  and 
the  prophets  comes  to  this :  — 

Never,  under  any  circumstances,  place  your 
trenches  where  you  can  see  the  enemy  a  long 
way  off.  If  you  do,  he  will  inevitably  see  you 
too,  and  will  shell  you  out  of  them  in  no  time. 
You  need  not  be  afraid  of  being  rushed;  a 
field  of  fire  of  two  hundred  yards  or  so  will 
be  sufficient  to  wipe  him  off  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

Never,  under  any  circumstances,  take  cover 
in  farm  buildings,  or  plantations,  or  behind 
railway  embankments,  or  in  any  place  likely 
to  be  marked  on  a  large-scale  map.  Their 
position  and  range  are  known  to  a  yard.  Your 
safest  place  is  the  middle  of  an  open  plain 
or  ploughed  field.  There  it  will  be  more  diffi- 
cult for  the  enemy's  range-takers  to  gauge 
your  exact  distance. 

In  musketry,  concentrate  all  your  energies 
on  taking  care  of  your  rifle  and  practising 


MID-CHANNEL  97 

"rapid."  You  will  seldom  have  to  fire  over  a 
greater  distance  than  two  hundred  yards ;  and 
at  that  range  British  rapid  fire  is  the  most 
dreadful  medium  of  destruction  yet  devised 
in  warfare. 

All  this  scraps  a  good  deal  of  laboriously 
acquired  learning,  but  it  rings  true.  So  we 
site  our  trenches  now  according  to  the  lessons 
taught  us  by  the  bitter  experience  of  others. 

Having  arrived  at  our  allotted  area,  we  get 
to  work.  The  firing-trench  proper  is  outlined 
on  the  turf  a  hundred  yards  or  so  down  the 
reverse  slope  of  a  low  hill.  When  it  is  finished 
it  will  be  a  mere  crack  in  the  ground,  with  no 
front  cover  to  speak  of ;  for  that  would  make 
it  conspicuous.  Number  One  Platoon  gets  to 
work  on  this.  To  Number  Two  is  assigned 
a  more  subtle  task  —  namely,  the  construc- 
tion of  a  dummy  trench  a  comfortable  dis- 
tance ahead,  dug  out  to  the  depth  of  a  few 
inches,  to  delude  inquisitive  aeroplanes,  and 
rendered  easily  visible  to  the  enemy 's  observ- 
ing stations  by  a  parapet  of  newly-turned 
earth.  Numbers  Three  and  Four  concentrate 
their  energies  upon  the  supporting  trench  and 
its  approaches. 

The  firing-trench  is  our  place  of  business 
—  our  office  in  the  city,  so  to  speak.  The 
supporting  trench  is  our  suburban  residence, 
whither  the  weary  toiler  may  betake  himself 
periodically  (or,  more  correctly,  in  relays) 
for  purposes  of  refreshment  and  repose.  The 
firing-trench,  like  most  business  premises,  is 


98     THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

severe  in  design  and  destitute  of  ornament. 
But  the  suburban  trench  lends  itself  to  more 
imaginative  treatment.  An  auctioneer's  cata- 
logue would  describe  it  as  A  commodious 
bijou  residence,  on  (or  of)  chalky  soil;  three 
feet  wide  and  six  feet  deep;  in  the  style  of 
the  best  troglodyte  period.  Thirty  seconds 
brisk  crawl  (or  per  stretcher)  from  the  firing 
line.  Gas  laid  on  — 

But  only  once,  in  a  field  near  Aldershot, 
where  Private  Mucklewame  first  laid  bare, 
and  then  perforated,  the  town  main  with 
his  pick. 

—  With  own  water  supply  —  ankle-deep  at 
times  —  telephone,  and  the  usual  offices. 

We  may  note  that  the  telephone  commu- 
nicates with  the  observing-station,  lying  well 
forward,  in  line  with  the  dummy  trench.  The 
most  important  of  the  usual  offices  is  the 
hospital  —  a  cavern  excavated  at  the  back  of 
the  trench,  and  roofed  over  with  hurdles, 
earth,  and  turf. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  we  do 
not  possess  a  real  field-telephone.  But  when 
you  have  spent  four  months  in  firing  dummy 
cartridges,  performing  bayonet  exercises  with- 
out bayonets,  taking  hasty  cover  from  non- 
existent shell  fire,  capturing  positions  held 
by  no  enemy,  and  enacting  the  part  of  a  "  casu- 
alty "  without  having  received  a  scratch, 
telephoning  without  .a  telephone  is  a  com- 
paratively simple  operation.  All  you  require 
is  a  ball  of  string  and  no  sense  of  humour. 


MID-CHANNEL  99 

Second  Lieutenant  Waddell  manages  our 
telephone. 

Meanwhile  we  possess  our  souls  in  patience. 
We  know  that  the  factories  are  humming 
night  and  day  on  our  behalf;  and  that  if, 
upon  a  certain  day  in  a  certain  month,  the 
contractors  do  not  deliver  our  equipment 
down  to  the  last  water-bottle  cork,  "K"  will 
want  to  know  the  reason  why ;  and  we  cannot 
imagine  any  contractor  being  so  foolhardy  as 
to  provoke  that  terrible  man  into  an  inquiring 
attitude  of  mind. 

Now  we  are  at  work.  We  almost  wish 
that  Freeman,  Hardy,  and  Willis  could  see  us. 
Our  buttons  may  occasionally  lack  lustre; 
we  may  cherish  unorthodox  notions  as  to  the 
correct  method  of  presenting  arms;  we  may 
not  always  present  an  unbroken  front  on  the 
parade-ground  —  but  we  can  dig!  Even  the 
fact  that  we  do  not  want  to,  cannot  alto- 
gether eradicate  a  truly  human  desire  to 
"show  off."  "Each  man  to  his  art,"  we  say. 
We  are  quite  content  to  excel  in  ours,  the 
oldest  in  the  world.  We  know  enough  now 
about  the  conditions  of  the  present  war  to  be 
aware  that  when  we  go  out  on  service  only 
three  things  will  really  count  —  to  march ;  to 
dig ;  and  to  fire,  upon  occasion,  fifteen  rounds 
a  minute.  Our  rapid  fire  is  already  fair;  we 
can  march  more  than  a  little;  and  if  men 
who  have  been  excavating  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  for  eight  hours  a  day  ever  since  they 
were  old  enough  to  swing  a  pick  cannot  make 


100    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

short  work  of  a  Hampshire  chalk  down,  they 
are  no  true  members  of  their  Trades  Union 
or  the  First  Hundred  Thousand. 

We  have  stuck  to  the  phraseology  of  our 
old  calling. 

"Whaur's  ma  drawer  f"  inquires  Private 
Hogg,  a  thick-set  young  man  with  bandy  legs, 
wiping  his  countenance  with  a  much-tattooed 
arm.  He  has  just  completed  five  strenuous 
minutes  with  a  pick.  "Come  away,  Geordie, 
wi?  yon  shovel!" 

The  shovel  is  preceded  by  an  adjective. 
It  is  the  only  adjective  that  A  Company 
knows.  (No,  not  that  one.  The  second  on 
the  list!) 

Mr.  George  Ogg  steps  down  into  the  breach, 
and  sets  to  work.  He  is  a  small  man,  strongly 
resembling  the  Emperor  of  China  in  a  third- 
rate  provincial  pantomime.  His  weapon  is 
the  spade.  In  civil  life  he  would  have  shov- 
elled the  broken  coal  into  a  "  hutch, "  and 
"hurled"  it  away  to  the  shaft.  That  was 
why  Private  Hogg  referred  to  him  as  a 
"drawer."  In  his  military  capacity  he  now 
removes  the  chalky  soil  from  the  trench  with 
great  dexterity,  and  builds  it  up  into  a  neat 
parapet  behind,  as  a  precaution  against  the 
back-blast  of  a  "Black  Maria." 

There  are  not  enough  picks  and  shovels  to 
go  round  —  cela  va  sans  dire.  However,  Pri- 
vate Mucklewame  and  others,  who  are  not  of 
the  delving  persuasion,  exhibit  no  resentment. 
Digging  is  not  their  department.  If  you 


MID-CHANNEL  101 

hand  them  a  pick  and  shovel  and  invite  them 
to  set  to  work,  they  lay  the  pick  upon  the 
ground  beside  the  trench  and  proceed  to 
shovel  earth  over  it  until  they  have  lost  it. 
At  a  later  stage  in  this  great  war-game  they 
will  fight  for  these  picks  and  shovels  like  wild 
beasts.  Shrapnel  is  a  sure  solvent  of  pro- 
fessional etiquette. 

However,  to-day  the  pickless  squad  are 
lined  up  a  short  distance  away  by  the  relent- 
less Captain  Wagstaffe,  and  informed  — 

"You  are  under  fire  from  that  wood.  Dig 
yourselves  in ! ' ' 

Digging  oneself  in  is  another  highly  un- 
popular fatigue.  First  of  all  you  produce 
your  portable  entrenching-tool  —  it  looks  like 
a  combination  of  a  modern  tack-hammer  and 
a  medieval  back-scratcher  —  and  fit  it  to  its 
haft.  Then  you  lie  flat  upon  your  face  on 
the  wet  grass,  and  having  scratched  up  some 
small  lumps  of  turf,  proceed  to  build  these 
into  a  parapet.  Into  the  hole  formed  by  the 
excavation  of  the  turf  you  then  put  your 
head,  and  in  this  ostrich-like  posture  await 
further  instructions.  Private  Mucklewame  is 
of  opinion  that  it  would  be  equally  effective, 
and  infinitely  less  fatiguing,  simply  to  lie 
down  prone  and  close  the  eyes. 

After  Captain  Wagstaffe  has  criticised  the 
preliminary  parapets  —  most  of  them  are  con- 
demned as  not  being  bullet-proof  —  the  work 
is  continued.  It  is  not  easy,  and  never  com- 
fortable, to  dig  lying  down ;  but  we  must  all 


102    THE    FISST.  HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

learn  to  do  it;  so  we  proceed  painfully  to 
construct  a  shallow  trough  for  our  bodies  and 
an  annexe  for  our  boots.  Gradually  we  sink 
out  of  sight,  and  Captain  Wagstaffe,  standing 
fifty  yards  to  our  front,  is  able  to  assure  us 
that  he  can  now  see  nothing  —  except  Private 
Mucklewame  's  lower  dorsal  curve. 

By  this  time  the  rain  has  returned  for  good, 
and  the  short  winter  day  is  drawing  to  a 
gloomy  close.  It  is  after  three,  and  we  have 
been  working,  with  one  brief  interval,  for 
nearly  five  hours.  The  signal  is  given  to  take 
shelter.  We  huddle  together  under  the  leaf- 
less trees,  and  get  wetter. 

Next  comes  the  order  to  unroll  greatcoats. 
Five  minutes  later  comes  another  —  to  fall 
in.  Tools  are  counted;  there  is  the  usual 
maddening  wait  while  search  is  made  for  a 
missing  pick.  But  at  last  the  final  word  of 
command  rings  out,  and  the  sodden,  leaden- 
footed  procession  sets  out  on  its  four-mile 
tramp  home. 

We  are  not  in  good  spirits.  One's  frame 
of  mind  at  all  times  depends  largely  upon 
what  the  immediate  future  has  to  offer; 
and,  frankly,  we  have  little  to  inspire  us  in 
that  direction  at  present.  When  we  joined, 
four  long  months  ago,  there  loomed  largely 
and  splendidly  before  our  eyes  only  two 
alternatives  —  victory  in  battle  or  death  with 
honour.  We  might  live,  or  we  might  die; 
but  life,  while  it  lasted,  would  not  lack 


MID-CHANNEL  103 

great  moments.  In  our  haste  we  had  over- 
looked the  long  dreary  waste  which  lay  — 
which  always  lies  —  between  dream  and  ful- 
filment. The  glorious  splash  of  patriotic 
fervour  which  launched  us  on  our  way  has 
subsided ;  we  have  reached  mid-channel ;  and 
the  haven  where  we  would  be  is  still  afar 
off.  The  brave  future  of  which  we  dreamed 
in  our  dour  and  uncommunicative  souls  seems 
as  remote  as  ever,  and  the  present  has  settled 
down  into  a  permanency. 

To-day,  for  instance,  we  have  tramped  a 
certain  number  of  miles;  we  have  worked 
for  a  certain  number  of  hours;  and  we  have 
got  wet  through  for  the  hundredth  time. 
We  are  now  tramping  home  to  a  dinner 
which  will  probably  not  be  ready,  because, 
as  yesterday,  it  has  been  cooked  in  the  open 
air  under  weeping  skies.  While  waiting 
for  it,  we  shall  clean  the  same  old  rifle. 
When  night  falls,  we  shall  sleep  uneasily 
upon  a  comfortless  floor,  in  an  atmosphere 
of  stale  food  and  damp  humanity.  In  the 
morning  we  shall  rise  up  reluctantly,  and 
go  forth,  probably  in  heavy  rain,  to  our 
labour  until  the  evening  —  the  same  labour 
and  the  same  evening.  We  admit  that  it 
can't  be  helped:  the  officers  and  the 
authorities  do  their  best  for  us  under  dis- 
couraging circumstances:  but  there  it  is. 
Out  at  the  front,  we  hear,  men  actually  get 
as  much  as  three  days  off  at  a  time  —  three 
days  of  hot  baths  and  abundant  food  and 


104    THE   FIRST  HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

dry  beds.  To  us,  in  our  present  frame  of 
mind,  that  seems  worth  any  number  of  bul- 
lets and  frost-bites. 

And — bitterest  thought  of  all — New  Year's 
Day,  with  all  its  convivial  associations,  is  only 
a  few  weeks  away.  When  it  comes,  the  folk 
at  home  will  celebrate  it,  doubtless  with  many 
a  kindly  toast  to  the  lads  "oot  there,"  and 
the  lads  "doon  there."  But  what  will  that 
profit  us?  In  this  barbarous  country  we 
understand  that  they  take  no  notice  of  the 
sacred  festival  at  all.  There  will  probably 
be  a  route-march,  to  keep  us  out  of  the  pub- 
lic-houses. 

Et  patiti,  et  patlta.  Are  we  fed  up? 
YES! 

As  we  swing  down  the  village  street,  slightly 
cheered  by  a  faint  aroma  of  Irish  stew  — 
the  cooks  have  got  the  fires  alight  after  all 
—  the  adjutant  rides  up,  and  reins  in  his 
horse  beside  our  company  commander. 

Battalion  orders  of  some  kind!  Prob- 
ably a  full-dress  parade,  to  trace  a  missing 
bayonet ! 

Presently  he  rides  away;  and  Captain 
Blaikie,  instead  of  halting  and  dismissing  us 
in  the  street  as  usual,  leads  us  down  an  alley 
into  the  backyard  which  serves  as  our  apol- 
ogy for  a  parade-ground.  We  form  close 
column  of  platoons,  stand  at  ease,  and  wait 
resignedly. 

Then  Captain  Blaikie 's  voice  falls  upon  our 
ears. 


MID-CHANNEL  105 


"A  Company,  I  have  an  announcement  to 
make  to  you.  His  Majesty  the  King  — 

So  that  is  it.  Another  Royal  Review! 
Well,  it  will  be  a  break  in  the  general 
monotony. 

' '  —  who  has  noted  your  hard  work,  good 
discipline,  and  steady  progress  with  the  keen- 
est satisfaction  and  pride  —  ' ' 

We  are  not  utterly  forgotten,  then. 

"  — has  commanded  that  every  man  in  the 
battalion  is  to  have  seven  days'  full  leave  of 
absence. ' ' 

"A-a-ah!"    We  strain  our  tingling  ears. 

"We  are  to  go  by  companies,  a  week  at 
a  time.  'C'  will  go  first." 

"0"  indeed!    Who  are  "0,"  to  1 

"A  Company's  leave  —  our  leave  —  will 
begin  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  December,  and 
extend  to  the  third  of  January. ' ' 

The  staccato  words  sink  slowly  in,  and 
then  thoughts  come  tumbling. 

"Free  —  free  on  New  Year's  Day! 
Almichty!  Free  to  gang  hame!  Free 
tae " 

Then  comes  an  icy  chill  upon  our  hearts. 
How  are  we  to  get  home?  Scotland  is  hun- 
dreds of  miles  away.  The  fare,  even  on  a 
"soldier's"  ticket  — 

But  the  Captain  has  not  quite  finished. 

"Every  man  will  receive  a  week's  pay  in 
advance;  and  his  fare,  home  and  back,  will 
be  paid  by  Government.  That  is  all." 

And   quite    enough   too!     We    rock   upon 


106    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

our  squelching  feet.  But  the  Captain  adds, 
without  any  suspicion  of  his  parade-ground 
manner  — 

"If  I  may  say  so,  I  think  that  if  ever  men 
deserved  a  good  holiday,  you  do.  Company, 
slope  arms!  Dis —  miss!" 

We  do  not  cheer:  we  are  not  built  that 
way.  But  as  we  stream  off  to  our  Irish  stew, 
the  dourest  of  us  says  in  his  heart  — s 

"God  Save  the  King!" 


DEEDS   OF   DARKNESS 

1A  MOONLIT,  wintry  night.  Four  hundred  men 
are  clumping  along  the  frost-bound  road, 
under  the  pleasing  illusion  that  because  they 
are  neither  whistling  nor  talking  they  are 
making  no  noise. 

At  the  head  of  the  column  march  Captains 
Mackintosh  and  Shand,  the  respective  com- 
manders of  C  and  D  Companies.  Occasion- 
ally Mackintosh,  the  senior,  interpolates  a 
remark  of  a  casual  or  professional  nature. 
To  all  these  his  colleague  replies  in  a  low 
and  reproachful  whisper.  The  pair  represent 
two  schools  of  military  thought  —  a  fact  of 
which  their  respective  subalterns  are  well 
aware,  —  and  act  accordingly. 

"In  preparing  troops  for  active  service,  you 
must  make  the  conditions  as  real  as  pos- 
sible from  the  very  outset, "  postulates  Shand. 
' i  Perform  all  your  exercises  just  as  you  would 
in  war.  "When  you  dig  trenches,  let  every 
man  work  with  his  weather-eye  open  and  his 
rifle  handy,  in  case  of  sudden  attack.  If  you 


108    THE    FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

go  out  on  night  operations  don't  advertise 
your  position  by  stopping  to  give  your  men 
a  recitation.  No  talking  —  no  smoking  —  no 
unnecessary  delay  or  exposure!  Just  go 
straight  to  your  point  of  deployment,  and 
do  what  you  came  out  to  do." 

To  this  Mackintosh  replies,  — 

" That's  all  right  for  trained  troops.  But 
ours  aren't  half -trained  yet;  all  our  work  just 
now  is  purely  educational.  It's  no  use  ex- 
pecting a  gang  of  rivet-heaters  from  Clyde- 
bank  to  form  an  elaborate  outpost  line,  just 
because  you  whispered  a  few  sweet  nothings 
in  the  dark  to  your  leading  section  of  fours! 
You  simply  must  explain  every  step  you  take, 
at  present." 

But  Shand  shakes  his  head. 

"It's  not  soldierly,"  he  sighs. 

Hence  the  present  one-sided  —  or  appar- 
ently one-sided  —  dialogue.  To  the  men 
marching  immediately  behind,  it  sounds  like 
something  between  a  soliloquy  and  a  chat  over 
the  telephone. 

Presently  Captain  Mackintosh  announces,  — 

"We  might  send  the  scouts  ahead  now  I 
think." 

Shand  gives  an  inaudible  'assent.  The 
column  is  halted,  and  the  scouts  called  up. 
A  brief  command,  and  they  disappear  into  the 
darkness,  at  the  double.  C  and  D  Companies 
give  them  five  minutes  start,  and  move  on. 
The  road  at  this  point  runs  past  a  low  mossy 
wall,  surmounted  by  a  venerable  yew  hedge, 


DEEDS    OF   DARKNESS  109 

clipped  at  intervals  into  the  semblance  of  some 
heraldic  monster.  Beyond  the  hedge,  in  the 
middle  distance,  looms  a  square  and  stately 
Georgian  mansion,  whose  lights  twinkle  hos- 
pitably. 

"I  think,  Shand,"  suggests  Mackintosh 
with  more  formality,  now  that  he  is  approach- 
ing the  scene  of  action,  "that  we  might  attack 
at  two  different  points,  each  of  us  with  his 
own  company.  What  is  your  opinion?" 

The  officer  addressed  makes  no  immediate 
reply.  His  gaze  is  fixed  upon  the  yew  hedge, 
as  if  searching  for  gun  positions  or  vulnerable 
points.  Presently,  however,  he  turns  away, 
and  coming  close  to  Captain  Mackintosh,  puts 
his  lips  to  his  left  ear.  Mackintosh  prepares 
his  intellect  for  the  reception  of  a  pearl  of 
strategy. 

But  Captain  Shand  merely  announces,  in 
his  .regulation  whisper,  — 

"Dam  pretty  girl  lives  in  that  house,  old 
man!" 


Private  Peter  Dunshie,  scout,  groping  pain- 
fully and  profanely  through  a  close-growing 
wood,  paused  to  unwind  a  clinging  tendril 
from  his  bare  knees.  As  he  bent  down,  his 
face  came  into  sudden  contact  with  a  cold, 
wet,  prickly  bramble-bush,  which  promptly 
drew  a  loving  but  excoriating  finger  across 
his  right  cheek. 


110    THE   FIKST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

He  started  back,  with  a  muffled  exclama- 
tion. Instantly  there  arose  at  his  very  feet 
the  sound  as  of  a  motor-engine  being  wound 
up,  and  a  flustered  and  protesting  cock-pheas- 
ant hoisted  itself  tumultuously  clear  of  the 
undergrowth  and  sailed  away,  shrieking,  over 
the  trees. 

Finally,  a  hare,  which  had  sat  cowering  in 
the  bracken,  hare-like,  when  it  might  have 
loped  away,  selected  this,  the  one  moment 
when  it  ought  to  have  sat  still,  to  bolt 
frantically  between  Peter's  bandy  legs  and 
speed  away  down  a  long  moon-dappled 
avenue. 

Private  Dunshie,  a  prey  to  nervous  shock, 
said  what  naturally  rose  to  his  lips.  To  be 
frank,  he  said  it  several  times.  He  had  spent 
the  greater  part  of  his  life  selling  evening 
papers  in  the  streets  of  Glasgow:  and  the 
profession  of  journalism,  though  it  breeds 
many  virtues  in  its  votaries,  is  entirely  useless 
as  a  preparation  for  conditions  either  of  si- 
lence or  solitude.  Private  Dunshie  had  no 
experience  of  either  of  these  things,  and  con- 
sequently feared  them  both.  He  was  acutely 
afraid.  What  he  understood  and  appreciated 
was  Argyle  Street  on  a  Saturday  night.  That 
was  life !  That  was  light !  That  was  civilisa- 
tion! As  for  creeping  about  in  this  uncanny 
wood,  filled  with  noxious  animals  and  adhesive 
vegetation  —  well,  Dunshie  was  heartily  sorry 
that  he  had  ever  volunteered  for  service  as 
a  scout.  He  had  only  done  so,  of  course, 


DEEDS    OF   DARKNESS  111 

because  the  post  seemed  to  offer  certain  re- 
laxations from  the  austerity  of  company 
routine  —  a  little  more  freedom  of  movement, 
a  little  less  trench-digging,  and  a  minimum 
of  supervision.  He  would  have  been  thankful 
for  a  supervisor  now ! 

That  evening,  when  the  scouts  doubled 
ahead,  Lieutenant  Simson  had  halted  them 
upon  the  skirts  of  a  dark,  dreich  plantation, 
and  said  — 

"A  and  B  Companies  represent  the  enemy. 
They  are  beyond  that  crest,  finishing  the 
trenches  which  were  begun  the  'other  day. 
They  intend  to  hold  these  against  our  attack. 
Our  only  chance  is  to  take  them  by  surprise. 
As  they  will  probably  have  thrown  out  a  line 
of  outposts,  you  scouts  will  now  scatter  and 
endeavour  to  get  through  that  line,  or  at 
least  obtain  exact  knowledge  of  its  compo- 
sition. My  belief  is  that  the  enemy  will  con- 
tent themselves  with  placing  a  piquet  on 
each  of  the  two  roads  which  run  through 
their  position;  but  it  is  possible  that  they 
will  also  post  sentry-groups  in  the  wood 
which  lies  between.  However,  that  is  what 
you  have  to  find  out.  Don't  go  and  get  cap- 
tured. Move ! ' ' 

The  scouts  silently  scattered,  and  each  man 
set  out  to  pierce  his  allotted  section  of  the 
enemy's  position.  Private  Dunshie,  who  had 
hoped  for  a  road,  or  at  least  a  cart-track,  to 
follow,  found  himself,  by  the  worst  of  luck, 
assigned  to  a  portion  of  the  thick  belt  of 


THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

wood  which  stretched  between  the  two  roads. 
Nature  had  not  intended  him  for  a  pioneer: 
he  was  essentially  a  city  man.  However,  he 
toiled  on,  rending  the  undergrowth,  putting 
up  game,  falling  over  tree-roots,  and  gener- 
ally acting  as  advertising  agent  for  the  ap- 
proaching attack. 

By  way  of  contrast,  two  hundred  yards  to 
his  right,  picking  his  way  with  cat-like  care 
and  rare  enjoyment,  was  Private  M'Snape. 
He  was  of  the  true  scout  breed.  In  the  dim 
and  distant  days  before  the  call  of  the  blood 
had  swept  him  into  "  K  ( 1 ) , ' '  he  had  been  a  Boy 
Scout  of  no  mean  repute.  He  was  clean  in 
person  and  courteous  in  manner.  He  could 
be  trusted  to  deliver  a  message  promptly.  He 
could  light  a  fire  in  a  high  wind  with  two 
matches,  and  provide  himself  with  a  meal  of 
sorts  where  another  would  have  starved.  He 
could  distinguish  an  oak  from  an  elm,  and 
was  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  movements 
of  the  heavenly  bodies  to  be  able  to  find  his 
way  across  country  by  night.  He  was  truth- 
ful, and  amenable  to  discipline.  In  short,  he 
was  the  embodiment  of  a  system  which  in 
times  of  peace  had  served  as  a  text  for  in- 
numerable well-meaning  but  muddle-headed 
politicians  of  a  certain  type,  who  made  a 
specialty  of  keeping  the  nation  upon  the 
alert  against  the  insidious  encroachments  of 
—  Heaven  help  us !  —  Militarism ! 

To-night  all  M'Snape's  soul  was  set  on 
getting  through  the  enemy's  outpost  line,  and 


DEEDS    OF   DARKNESS  113 

discovering  a  way  of  ingress  for  the  host 
behind  him.  He  had  no  map,  but  he  had 
the  Plough  and  a  fitful  moon  to  guide  him, 
and  he  held  a  clear  notion  of  the  disposition 
of  the  trenches  in  his  retentive  brain.  On 
his  left  he  could  hear  the  distressing  sounds 
of  Dunshie 's  dolorous  progress;  but  these 
were  growing  fainter.  The  reason  was  that 
Dunshie,  like  most  persons  who  follow  the  line 
of  least  resistance,  was  walking  in  a  circle. 
In  fact,  a  few  minutes  later  his  circuitous 
path  brought  him  out  upon  the  long  straight 
road  which  ran  up  over  the  hill  towards  the 
trenches. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Dunshie  stepped  out 
upon  the  good  hard  macadam,  and  proceeded 
with  the  merest  show  of  stealth  up  the  gentle 
gradient.  But  he  was  not  yet  at  ease.  The 
over-arching  trees  formed  a  tunnel  in  which 
his  footsteps  reverberated  uncomfortably. 
The  moon  had  retired  behind  a  cloud.  Dun- 
shie, gregarious  and  urban,  quaked  anew.  Ee- 
flecting  longingly  upon  his  bright  and  cosy 
billet,  with  the  " subsistence"  which  was 
doubtless  being  prepared  against  his  return, 
he  saw  no  occasion  to  reconsider  his  opinion 
that  in  the  country  no  decent  body  should 
ever  be  called  up  to  go  out  after  dark  unac- 
companied. At  that  moment  Dunshie  would 
have  bartered  his  soul  for  the  sight  of  an 
electric  tram. 

The  darkness  grew  more  intense.  Some- 
thing stirred  in  the  wood  beside  him,  and  his 


114    THE    FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

skin  tingled.  An  owl  hooted  suddenly,  and 
he  jumped.  Next,  the  gross  darkness  was 
illuminated  by  a  pale  and  ghostly  radiance, 
coming  up  from  behind;  and  something 
brushed  past  him  —  something  which  squeaked 
and  panted.  His  hair  rose  upon  his  scalp. 
A  friendly  "  Good-night ! "  uttered  in  a  strong 
Hampshire  accent  into  his  left  ear,  accentu- 
ated rather  than  soothed  his  terrors.  He  sat 
down  suddenly  upon  a  bank  by  the  roadside, 
and  feebly  mopped  his  moist  brow. 

The  bicycle,  having  passed  him,  wobbled  on 
up  the  hill,  shedding  a  fitful  ray  upon  alter- 
nate sides  of  the  road.  Suddenly  —  raucous 
and  stunning,  but  oh,  how  sweet !  —  rang  out 
the  voice  of  Dunshie  's  lifelong  friend,  Private 
Mucklewame. 

' '  Halt !    Wha  goes  there  ? ' ' 

The  cyclist  made  no  reply,  but  kept  his 
devious  course.  Private  Mucklewame,  who 
liked  to  do  things  decently  and  in  order, 
stepped  heavily  out  of  the  hedge  into  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  repeated  his  question 
in  a  reproving  voice.  There  was  no  answer. 

This  was  most  irregular.  According  to  the 
text  of  the  spirited  little  dialogue  in  which 
Mucklewame  had  been  recently  rehearsed  by 
his  piquet  commander,  the  man  on  the  bicycle 
ought  to  have  said  "Friend!"  This  cue  re- 
ceived, Mucklewame  was  prepared  to  continue. 
Without  it  he  was  gravelled.  He  tried  once 
more. 

"Halt!    Wha  goes " 


DEEDS    OF   DAEKNESS  115 

"On  His  Majesty's  Service,  my  lad!"  re- 
sponded a  hearty  voice;  and  the  postman, 
supplementing  this  information  with  a  friendly 
good-night,  wobbled  up  the  hill  and  disap- 
peared from  sight. 

The  punctilious  Mucklewame  was  still  glar- 
ing severely  after  this  unseemly  "gagger," 
when  he  became  aware  of  footsteps  upon  the 
road.  A  pedestrian  was  plodding  up  the  hill 
in  the  wake  of  the  postman.  He  would  stand 
no  nonsense  this  time. 

"Halt!"  he  commanded.  "Wha  goes 
there?" 

"Hey,  Jock,"  inquired  a  husky  voice,  "is 
that  you?" 

This  was  another  most  irregular  answer. 
Declining  to  be  drawn  into  impromptu  irrele- 
vancies,  Mucklewame  stuck  to  his  text. 

"Advance  yin,"  he  continued,  "and  give 
the  coontersign,  if  any ! ' ' 

Private  Dunshie  drew  nearer. 

"Jock,"  he  inquired  wistfully,  "hae  ye  got- 
ten a  fag?" 

"Aye,"  replied  Mucklewame,  friendship 
getting  the  better  of  conscience. 

"Wull  ye  give  a  body  yin  I" 

"Aye.  But  ye  canna  smoke  on  ootpost 
duty, ' '  explained  Mucklewame  sternly.  * i  For- 
bye,  the  officer  has  no  been  roond  yet,"  he 
added. 

"Oiiyway,"  urged  Dunshie  eagerly,  "let 
me  be  your  prisoner!  Let  me  bide  with  the 
other  boys  in  here  ahint  the  dyke !" 


116    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

The  hospitable  Mncklewame  agreed,  and 
Scout  Dunshie,  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of 
human  companionship,  promptly  climbed  over 
the  low  wall  and  attached  himself,  in  the 
role  of  languishing  captive,  to  Number  Two 
Sentry-Group  of  Number  Three  Piquet. 


m 


Meanwhile  M'Snape  had  reached  the  for- 
ward edge  of  the  wood,  and  was  cautiously 
reconnoitring  the  open  ground  in  front  of  him. 
The  moon  had  disappeared  altogether  now, 
but  M'Snape  was  able  to  calculate,  by  reason 
of  the  misdirected  exuberance  of  the  vigilant 
MucHewame,  the  exact  position  of  the  sentry- 
group  on  the  left-hand  road.  About  the  road 
on  his  right  he  was  not  so  certain ;  so  he  set 
out  cautiously  towards  it,  keeping  to  the  edge 
of  the  wood,  and  pausing  every  few  yards  to 
listen.  There  'must  be  a  sentry-group  some- 
where here,  he  calculated  —  say  midway  be- 
tween the  roads.  He  must  walk  warily. 

Easier  said  than  done.  At  this  very 
moment  a  twig  snapped  beneath  his  foot 
with  a  noise  like  a  pistol-shot,  and  a  covey 
of  partridges,  lying  out  upon  the  stubble 
beside  him,  made  an  indignant  evacuation  of 
their  bedroom.  The  mishap  seemed  fatal: 
M'Snape  stood  like  a  stone.  But  no  alarm 
followed,  and  presently  all  was  still  again  — 
so  still,  indeed,  that  presently,*  out  on  the 


DEEDS    OF   DARKNESS  117 

right,  two  hundred  yards  away,  M' Snape 
heard  a  man  cough  and  then  spit.  Another 
sentry  was  located ! 

Having  decided  that  there  was  no  sentry- 
group  between  the  two  roads,  M*  Snape  turned 
his  back  upon  the  wood  and  proceeded  cau- 
tiously forward.  He  was  not  quite  satisfied 
in  his  mind  about  things.  He  knew  that  Cap- 
tain Wagstaffe  was  in  command  of  this  section 
of  the  defence.  He  cherished  a  wholesome 
respect  for  that  efficient  officer,  and  doubted 
very  much  if  he  would  really  leave  so  much  of 
his  front  entirely  unguarded. 

Next  moment  the  solution  of  the  puzzle 
was  in  his  very  hand  —  in  the  form  of  a 
stout  cord  stretching  from  right  to  left.  He 
was  just  in  time  to  avoid  tripping  over  it. 
It  was  suspended  about  six  inches  above  the 
ground. 

You  cannot  follow  a  clue  in  two  direc- 
tions at  once;  so  after  a  little  consideration 
M*  Snape  turned  and  crawled  along  to  his 
right,  being  careful  to  avoid  touching  the 
cord.  Presently  a  black  mass  loomed  before 
him,  acting  apparently  as  terminus  to  the 
cord.  Lying  flat  on  his  stomach,  in  order 
to  get  as  much  as  possible  of  this  obstacle 
between  his  eyes  and  the  sky,  M' Snape  was 
presently  able  to  descry,  plainly  silhouetted 
against  the  starry  landscape,  the  profile  of  one 
Bain,  a  scout  of  A  Company,  leaning  comfort- 
ably against  a  small  bush,  and  presumably 
holding  the  end  of  the  cord  in  his  hand. 


118    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED    THOUSAND 

M*  Snape  wriggled  silently  away,  and  paused 
to  reflect.  Then  he  began  to  creep  forward 
once  more. 

Having  covered  fifty  yards,  he  turned  to 
his  right  again,  and  presently  found  himself 
exactly  between  Bain  and  the  trenches.  As 
he  expected,  his  hand  now  descended  upon 
another  cord,  lying  loosely  on  the  ground, 
and  running  at  right  angles  to  the  first. 
Plainly  Bain  was  holding  one  end  of  this,  and 
some  one  in  the  trenches  —  Captain  Wag- 
staffe  himself,  as  like  as  not  —  was  holding 
the  other.  If  an  enemy  stumbled  over  the 
trip-cord,  Bain  would  warn  the  defence  by 
twitching  the  alarm-cord. 

Five  minutes  later  M'  Snape  was  back  at 
the  rendezvous,  describing  to  Simson  what 
he  had  seen.  That  wise  subaltern  promptly 
conducted  him  to  Captain  Mackintosh,  who 
was  waiting  with  his  Company  for  something 
to  go  upon.  Shand  had  departed  with  his 
own  following  to  make  an  independent  attack 
on  the  right  flank.  Seven  of  the  twelve  scouts 
were  there.  Of  the  missing,  Dunshie,  as  we 
know,  was  sunning  his  lonely  soul  in  the 
society  of  his  foes;  two  had  lost  themselves, 
and  the  remaining  two  had  been  captured 
by  a  reconnoitring  patrol.  Of  the  seven 
which  strayed  not,  four  had  discovered 
the  trip-cord;  so  it  was  evident  that  that 
ingenious  contrivance  extended  along  the 
whole  line.  Only  M'  Snape,  however,  had 
penetrated  farther.  The  general  report  was 


DEEDS    OF   DAEKNESS  119 

that  the  position  was  closely  guarded  from 
end  to  end. 

"You  say  you  found  a  cord  running  back 
from  Bain  to  the  trenches,  M'Snape,"  asked 
Captain  Mackintosh,  "and  a  sentry  holding 
on  to  it  1" 

"Yess,  sirr,"  replied  the  scout,  standing 
stiffly  to  attention  in  the  dark. 

"If  we  could  creep  out  of  the  wood  and 
rush  him,  we  might  be  able  to  slip  our  attack 
in  at  that  point,"  said  the  Captain.  "You 
say  there  is  cover  to  within  twenty  yards  of 
where  he  is  sitting?" 

"Yes,  sirr." 

"Still,  I'm  afraid  he'll  pull  that  cord  a  bit 
too  soon  for  us." 

"He'll  no,  sirr,"  remarked  M'Snape  con- 
fidently. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  Captain. 

M'Snape  told  him. 

Captain  Mackintosh  surveyed  the  small 
wizened  figure  before  him  almost  affection- 
ately. 

"M'Snape,"  he  said,  "to-morrow  I  shall 
send  in  your  name  for  lance-corporal!" 


rv 


The  defenders  were  ready.  The  trenches 
were  finished:  "A"  and  "B"  had  adjusted 
their  elbow-rests  to  their  liking,  and  blank 


120    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

ammunition  had  been  served  out.  Orders 
upon  the  subject  of  firing  were  strict. 

"We  won't  loose  off  a  single  shot  until  we 
actually  see  you, ' '  Captain  Blaikie  had  said  to 
Captain  Mackintosh.  "That  will  teach  your 
men  to  crawl  upon  their  little  tummies,  and 
ours  to  keep  their  eyes  skinned." 

(Captain  Wagstaffe's  string  alarm  had  been 
an  afterthought.  At  least,  it  was  not  men- 
tioned to  the  commander  of  the  attack.) 

Orders  were  given  that  the  men  were  to 
take  things  easily  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  as 
the  attack  could  not  possibly  be  developed 
within  that  time.  The  officers  established 
themselves  in  a  splinter-proof  shelter  at  the 
back  of  the  supporting  trench,  and  partook  of 
provender  from  their  haversacks. 

"I  don't  suppose  they'll  attack  much  before 
nine,"  said  the  voice  of  a  stout  major  named 
Kemp.  "My  word,  it  is  dark  in  here!  And 
dull !  Curse  the  Kaiser ! ' ' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Wagstaffe  thought- 
fully. "War  is  hell,  and  all  that,  but  it  has 
a  good  deal  to  recommend  it.  It  wipes  out 
all  the  small  nuisances  of  peace-time." 

"Such  as f" 

"Well,  Suffragettes,  and  Futurism,  and  — 
and " 

1  i  Bernard  Shaw, ' '  suggested  another  voice. 
"HallCaine " 

"Yes,  and  the  Tango,  and  party  politics, 
and  golf-maniacs.  Life  and  Death,  and 
the  things  that  really  are  big,  get  viewed 


DEEDS    OF   DAEKNESS  121 

in  their  proper  perspective  for  once  in  a 


way." 

"And  look  how  the  War  has  bucked  up  the 
nation,"  said  Bobby  Little,  all  on  fire  at  once. 
"Look  at  the  way  girls  have  given  up  fuss- 
ing over  clothes  and  things,  and  taken  to 
nursing." 

"My  poor  young  friend,"  said  the  voice  of 
the  middle-aged  Kemp,  "tell  me  honestly, 
would  you  like  to  be  attended  to  by  some  of 
the  young  women  who  have  recently  taken 
up  the  nursing  profession?" 

"Bather!"  said  Bobby,  with  thoughtless 
fervour. 

"I  didn't  say  one/'  Kemp  pointed  out, 
amid  laughter,  "but  some.  Of  course  we  all 
know  of  one.  Even  I  do.  It's  the  rule,  not 
the  exception,  that  we  are  dealing  with  just 
now. ' ' 

Bobby,  realising  that  he  had  been  unfairly 
surprised  in  a  secret,  felt  glad  that  the  dark- 
ness covered  his  blushes. 

"Well,  take  my  tip,"  continued  Kemp,  "and 
avoid  amateur  ministering  angels,  my  son. 
I  studied  the  species  in  South  Africa.  For 
twenty-four  hours  they  nurse  you  to  death, 
and  after  that  they  leave  you  to  perish  of 
starvation.  Women  in  war-time  are  best  left 
at  home." 

A  youthful  paladin  in  the  gloom  timidly 
mentioned  the  name  of  Florence  Night- 
ingale. 

"One    Nightingale    doesn't   make    a   base 


m    THE    FIEST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 

hospital,"  replied  Kemp.  "I  take  off  my  hat 
—  we  all  do  —  to  women  who  are  willing  to 
undergo  the  drudgery  and  discomfort  which 
hospital  training  involves.  But  I'm  not 
talking  about  Florence  Nightingales.  The 
young  person  whom  I  am  referring  to  is 
just  intelligent  enough  to  understand  that 
the  only  possible  thing  to  do  this  season  is 
to  nurse.  She  qualifies  herself  for  her  new 
profession  by  dressing  up  like  one  of  the 
chorus  of  'The  Quaker  Girl/  and  getting 
her  portrait,  thus  attired,  into  the  'Tatler.' 
Having  achieved  this,  she  has  graduated. 
She  then  proceeds  to  invade  any  hospital  that 
is  available,  where  she  flirts  with  everything 
in  pyjamas,  and  freezes  you  with  a  look  if 
you  ask  her  to  empty  a  basin  or  change 
your  sheets.  I  know  her!  I've  had  some, 
and  I  know  her!  She  is  one  of  the  minor 
horrors  of  war.  In  peace-time  she  goes  out 
on  Alexandra  Day,  and  stands  on  the  steps  of 
men's  clubs  and  pesters  the  members  to  let 
her  put  a  rose  in  their  button-holes.  What 
such  a  girl  wants  is  a  good  old-fashioned 
mother  who  knows  how  to  put  a  slipper  to 
its  right  use!" 

"I  don't  think,"  observed  Wagstaffe,  since 
Kemp  had  apparently  concluded  his  philippic, 
"that  young  girls  are  the  only  people  who 
lose  their  heads.  Consider  all  the  poisonous 
young  blighters  that  one  sees  about  town  just 
now.  Their  uplift  is  enormous,  and  their 
manners  in  public  horrid;  and  they  hardly 


DEEDS    OF   DAEOTESS  123 

know  enough  about  their  new  job  to  stand 
at  attention  when  they  hear  'God  Save  the 
King.'  In  fact,  they  deserve  to  be  nursed 
by  your  little  friends,  Bobby!" 

"They  are  all  that  you  say,"  conceded 
Kemp.  "But  after  all,  they  do  have  a  fairly 
stiff  time  of  it  on  duty,  and  they  are  going 
to  have  a  much  stiffer  time  later  on.  And 
they  are  not  going  to  back  out  when  the  ro- 
mance of  the  new  uniform  wears  off,  remem- 
ber. Now  these  girls  will  play  the  angel-of- 
mercy  game  for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  jack 
up  and  confine  their  efforts  to  getting  hold 
of  a  wounded  officer  and  taking  him  to  the 
theatre.  It  is  dernier  cri  to  take  a  wounded 
officer  about  with  you  at  present.  Wounded 
officers  have  quite  superseded  Pekinese,  I  am 
told." 

"Women  certainly  are  the  most  extraordi- 
nary creatures,"  mused  Ayling,  a  platoon 
commander  of  "B."  "In  private  life  I  am  a 
beak  at  a  public  school ' ' 

"What  school?"  inquired  several  voices. 
Ayling  gave  the  name,  found  that  there  were 
two  of  the  school's  old  boys  present,  and 
continued  — 

"Just  as  I  was  leaving  to  join  this  bat- 
talion, the  Head  received  a  letter  from  a  boy's 
mother  intimating  that  she  was  obliged  to 
withdraw  her  son,  as  he  had  received  a  com- 
mission in  the  army  for  the  duration  of  the 
war.  She  wanted  to  know  if  the  Head 
would  keep  her  son's  place  open  for  him 


124    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

until  he  came  back!  What  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"Sense  of  proportion  wasn't  invented  when 
women  were  made, ' '  commented  Kemp.  '  '  But 
we  are  wandering  from  the  subject,  which  is : 
what  advantages  are  we,  personally,  deriving 
from  the  war?  Wagger,  what  are  you  getting 
out  of  it?" 

"Half-a-crown  a  day  extra  pay  as  Assist- 
ant Adjutant,"  replied  Wagstaffe  laconically. 
"Ainslie,  wake  up  and  tell  us  what  the  war 
has  done  for  you,  since  you  abandoned  the 
Stock  Exchange  and  took  to  foot-slogging." 

6 '  Certainly, ' '  replied  Ainslie.  ' t  A  year  ago 
I  spent  my  days  trying  to  digest  my  food, 
and  my  nights  trying  to  sleep.  I  was  not 
at  all  successful  in  either  enterprise.  I  can 
now  sit  down  to  a  supper  of  roast  pork  and 
bottled  stout,  go  to  bed  directly  afterwards, 
sleep  all  night,  and  wake  up  in  the  morning 
without  thinking  unkind  things  of  anybody 
—  not  even  my  relations-in-law !  Bless  the 
Kaiser,  say  I!  Borrodaile,  what  about  you? 
Any  complaints?" 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Borrodaile 's  dry 
voice;  "there  are  no  complaints.  In  civil 
life  I  am  what  is  known  as  a  *  prospective 
candidate.'  For  several  years  I  have  been 
exercising  this,  the  only,  method  of  advertis- 
ing permitted  to  a  barrister,  by  nursing  a 
constituency.  That  is,  I  go  down  to  the  coun- 
try once  a  week,  and  there  reduce  myself 
to  speechlessness  soliciting  the  votes  of  the 


DEEDS    OF   DARKNESS  125 

people  who  put  my  opponent  in  twenty  years 
ago,  and  will  keep  him  in  by  a  two  thousand 
majority  as  long  as  he  cares  to  stand.  I  have 
been  at  it  five  years,  but  so  far  the  old  gentle- 
man has  never  so  much  as  betrayed  any  knowl- 
edge of  my  existence." 

"That  must  be  rather  galling,"  said  Wag- 
staffe. 

"Ah!  but  listen!  Of  course  party  politics 
have  now  been  merged  in  the  common  cause 
—  see  local  organs,  passim  —  and  both  sides 
are  working  shoulder  to  shoulder  for  the 
maintenance  of  our  national  existence." 

"Applause!"  murmured  Kemp. 

"That  is  to  say,"  continued  Borrodaile 
with  calm  relish,  "my  opponent,  whose  strong 
suit  for  the  last  twenty  years  has  been  to 
cry  down  the  horrors  of  militarism,  and  the 
madness  of  national  service,  and  the  un- 
wieldy size  of  the  British  Empire,  is  now 
compelled  to  spend  his  evenings  taking  the 
chair  at  mass  meetings  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  recruiting.  I  believe  the  way  in 
which  he  eats  up  his  own  previous  utter- 
ances on  the  subject  is  quite  superb.  On  these 
occasions  I  always  send  him  a  telegram, 
containing  a  kindly  pat  on  the  back  for  him 
and  a  sort  of  semi-official  message  for  the 
audience.  He  has  to  read  this  out  on  the 
platform ! ' ' 

"What  sort  of  message?"  asked  a  delighted 
voice. 

"Oh  —  Send  along  some  more  of  our  boys. 


126    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Lord  Kitchener  says  there  are  none  to  touch 
them.  Borrodaile,  Bruce  and  Wallace  High- 
landers. Or  —  All  success  to  the  meeting,  and 
best  thanks  to  you  personally  for  carrying 
on  in  my  absence.  Borrodaile,  Bruce  and 
Wallace  Highlanders.  I  have  a  lot  of  quiet 
fun,"  said  Borrodaile  meditatively,  " compos- 
ing those  telegrams.  I  rather  fancy"  —  he 
examined  the  luminous  watch  on  his  wrist  — 
"yes,  it's  five  minutes  past  eight:  I  rather 
fancy  the  old  thing  is  reading  one  now!" 

The  prospective  candidate  leaned  back 
against  the  damp  wall  of  the  dug-out  with 
a  happy  sigh.  "What  have  you  got  out  of 
the  war,  Ayling?"  he  inquired. 

"Change,"  said  Ay  ling. 

"For  better  or  worse!" 

"If  you  had  spent  seven  years  in  a  big 
public  school,"  said  Ayling,  "teaching  exactly 
the  same  thing,  at  exactly  the  same  hour,  to 
exactly  the  same  kind  of  boy,  for  weeks  on 
end,  what  sort  of  change  would  you  welcome 
most?" 

"Death,"  said  several  voices. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind!"  said  Ayling 
warmly.  "It's  a  great  life,  if  you  are  cut 
out  for  it.  But  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
regularity  of  the  hours,  and  the  absolute 
certainty  of  the  future,  make  a  man  a  bit 
groovy.  Now  in  this  life  we  are  living  we 
have  to  do  lots  of  dull  or  unpleasant  things, 
but  they  are  never  quite  the  same  things. 
They  are  progressive,  and  not  circular,  if 


DEEDS    OP   DAEKNESS  127 

yon  know  what  I  mean;  and  the  immediate 
future  is  absolutely  unknown,  which  is  an  un- 
told blessing.  What  about  you,  Sketchley?" 

A  fat  voice  replied  — 

"War  is  good  for  adipose  Special  Beser- 
vists.  I  have  decreased  four  inches  round  the 
waist  since  October.  Next?" 

So  the  talk  ran  on.  Young  Lochgair,  heir 
to  untold  acres  in  the  far  north  and  master  of 
unlimited  pocket-money,  admitted  frankly 
that  the  sum  of  eight-and-sixpence  per  day, 
which  he  was  now  earning  by  the  sweat  of 
his  brow  and  the  expenditure  of  shoe-leather, 
was  sweeter  to  him  than  honey  in  the  honey- 
comb. Hattrick,  who  had  recently  put  up  a 
plate  in  Harley  Street,  said  it  was  good  to  be 
earning  a  living  wage  at  last.  Mr.  Waddell, 
pressed  to  say  a  few  words  of  encouragement 
of  the  present  campaign,  delivered  himself  of 
a  guarded  but  illuminating  eulogy  of  war  as 
a  cure  for  indecision  of  mind;  from  which, 
coupled  with  a  coy  reference  to  "some  one" 
in  distant  St.  Andrews,  the  company  were 
enabled  to  gather  that  Mr.  Waddell  had  car- 
ried a  position  with  his  new  sword  which  had 
proved  impregnable  to  civilian  assault. 

Only  Bobby  Little  was  silent.  In  all  this 
genial  symposium  there  had  been  no  word  of 
the  spur  which  was  inciting  him  —  and  doubt- 
less the  others  —  along  the  present  weary  and 
monotonous  path;  and  on  the  whole  he  was 
glad  that  it  should  be  so.  None  of  us  care 
to  talk,  even  privately,  about  the  Dream  of 


128    THE   FIRST   HFNDEED   THOUSAND 

Hojiour  and  the  Hope  of  Glory.  The  only 
difference  between  Bobby  and  the  others  was 
that  while  they  could  cover  up  their  aspira- 
tions with  a  jest,  Bobby  must  say  all  that  was 
in  his  heart,  or  keep  silent.  So  he  held  his 
peace. 

A  tall  figure  loomed  against  the  starlit  sky, 
and  Captain  Wagstaffe,  who  had  been  out  in 
the  trench,  spoke  quickly  to  Major  Kemp :  — 

"I  thing  we  had  better  get  to  our  places, 
sir.  Some  criminal  has  cut  my  alarm-cord!" 


Five  minutes  previously,  Private  Bain, 
lulled  to  a  sense  of  false  security  by  the  still- 
ness of  the  night,  had  opened  his  eyes,  which 
had  been  closed  for  purposes  of  philosophic 
reflection,  to  find  himself  surrounded  by  four 
ghostly  figures  in  greatcoats.  With  creditable 
presence  of  mind  he  jerked  his  alarm-cord. 
But,  alas !  the  cord  came  with  his  hand. 

He  was  now  a  prisoner,  and  his  place  in  the 
scout-line  was  being  used  as  a  point  of  deploy- 
ment for  the  attacking  force. 

"We're  extended  right  along  the  line 
now,"  said  Captain  Mackintosh  to  Simson. 
"I  can't  wait  any  longer  for  Shand:  he  has 
probably  lost  himself.  The  sentries  are  all 
behind  us.  Pass  the  word  along  to  crawl 
forward.  Every  man  to  keep  as  low  as  he 


DEEDS    OP   DARKNESS  129 

can,  and  dress  by  the  right.  No  one  to  charge 
unless  he  hears  my  whistle,  or  is  fired  on, ' ' 

The  whispered  word  —  Captain  Mackintosh 
knows  when  to  whisper  quite  as  well  as  Cap- 
tain Shand —  runs  down  the  line,  and  pres- 
ently we  begin  to  creep  forward,  stooping  low. 
Sometimes  we  halt ;  sometimes  we  swing  back 
a  little ;  but  on  the  whole  we  progress.  Once 
there  is  a  sudden  exclamation.  A  highly- 
strung  youth,  crouching  in  a  field  drain,  has 
laid  his  hand  upon  what  looks  and  feels  like 
a  clammy  human  face,  lying  recumbent  and 
staring  heavenward.  Too  late,  he  recognises 
a  derelict  scarecrow  with  a  turnip  head. 
Again,  there  is  a  pause  while  the  extreme 
right  of  the  line  negotiates  an  unexpected 
barbed-wire  fence.  Still,  we  move  on,  with 
enormous  caution.  We  are  not  certain  where 
the  trenches  are,  but  they  must  be  near.  At 
any  moment  a  crackling  volley  may  leap  out 
upon  us.  Pulses  begin  to  beat. 

In  the  trench  itself  eyes  are  strained  and 
ears  cocked.  It  is  an  eerie  sensation  to  know 
that  men  are  near  you,  and  creeping  nearer, 
yet  remain  inaudible  and  invisible.  It  is  a 
very  dark  night.  The  moon  appears  to  have 
gone  to  bed  for  good,  and  the  stars  are  mostly 
covered.  Men  unconsciously  endeavour  to 
fan  the  darkness  away  with  their  hands,  like 
mist.  The  broken  ground  in  front,  with  the 
black  woods  beyond,  might  be  concealing  an 
army  corps  for  all  the  watchers  in  the  trenches 
can  tell.  Far  away  to  the  south  a  bright 


130    THE    FIEST   HUNDRED    THOUSAND 

finger  of  light  occasionally  stabs  the  murky 
heavens.  It  is  the  searchlight  of  a  British 
cruiser,  keeping  ceaseless  vigil  in  the  English 
Channel,  fifteen  miles  away.  If  she  were  not 
there  we  should  not  be  making-believe  here 
with  such  comfortable  deliberation.  It  would 
be  the  real  thing. 

Bobby  Little,  who  by  this  time  can  almost 
discern  spiked  German  helmets  in  the  gloom, 
stands  tingling.  On  either  side  of  him  are 
ranged  the  men  of  his  platoon  —  some  eager, 
some  sleepy,  but  all  silent.  For  the  first  time 
he  notices  that  in  the  distant  woods  ahead  of 
him  there  is  a  small  break  —  a  mere  gap  — 
through  which  one  or  two  stars  are  twinkling. 
If  only  he  could  contrive  to  get  a  line  of  sight 
direct  to  that  patch  of  sky 

He  moves  a  few  yards  along  the  trench, 
and  brings  his  eye  to  the  ground-level.  No 
good:  a  bush  intervenes,  fifteen  yards  away. 
He  moves  further  and  tries  again. 

Suddenly,  for  a  brief  moment,  against  the 
dimly  illuminated  scrap  of  horizon,  he  descries 
a  human  form,  clad  in  a  kilt,  advancing 
stealthily.  .  .  . 

"Number  one  Platoon  —  at  the  enemy  in 
front  —  rapid  fire!" 

He  is  just  in  time.  There  comes  an  over- 
wrought roar  of  musketry  all  down  the  line  of 
trenches.  Simultaneously,  a  solid  wall  of  men 
rises  out  of  the  earth  not  fifty  yards  away, 
and  makes  for  the  trenches  with  a  long-drawn 
battle  yell. 


DEEDS    OF   DAKKNESS  131 

Make-believe  has  its  thrills  as  well  as  the 
genuine  article. 

And  so  home  to  bed.  M'Snape  duly  became 
a  lance-corporal,  while  Dunshie  resigned  his 
post  as  a  scout  and  returned  to  duty  with  the 
company. 


XI 

OLYMPUS 

UNDEE  this  designation  it  is  convenient  to 
lump  the  whole  heavenly  host  which  at  pres- 
ent orders  our  goings  and  shapes  our  ends. 
It  includes  — 

(1)  The  War  Office; 

(2)  The  Treasury; 

(3)  The  Army  Ordnance  Office; 

(4)  Our  Divisional  Office ; 

—  and  other  more  local  and  immediate  homes 
of  mystery. 

The  Olympus  which  controls  the  destinies 
of  "K(l) "  differs  in  many  respects  from  the 
Olympus  of  antiquity,  but  its  celestial  in- 
habitants appear  to  have  at  least  two  points 
in  common  with  the  original  body  —  namely, 
a  childish  delight  in  upsetting  one  another's 
arrangements,  and  an  untimely  sense  of  hu- 
mour when  dealing  with  mortals. 

So  far  as  our  researches  have  gone,  we  have 
been  able  to  classify  Olympus,  roughly,  into 
three  departments  — 


OLYMPUS  133 

(1)  Bound    Game    Department    (including 

Dockets,    Indents,    and    all    official 
correspondence) . 

(2)  Fairy  Godmother  Department. 

(3)  Practical  Joke  Department. 

The  outstanding  feature  of  the  Eound  Game 
Department  is  its  craving  for  irrelevant  in- 
formation and  its  passion  for  detail.  "Open 
your  hearts  to  us,"  say  the  officials  of  the 
Department;  "unburden  your  souls;  keep 
nothing  from  us  —  and  you  will  find  us  most 
accommodating.  But  stand  on  your  dignity; 
decline  to  particularise;  hold  back  one  irrel- 
evant detail  —  and  it  will  go  hard  with  you! 
Listen,  and  we  will  explain  the  rules  of  the 
game.  Think  of  something  you  want  im- 
mediately —  say  the  command  of  a  brigade, 
or  a  couple  of  washers  for  the  lock  of  a  ma- 
chine-gun—  and  apply  to  us.  The  applica- 
tion must  be  made  in  writing,  upon  the  Army 
Form  provided  for  the  purpose,  and  in  tripli- 
cate. And  —  you  must  put  in  all  the  details 
you  can  possibly  think  of." 

For  instance,  in  the  case  of  the  machine- 
gun  washers  —  by  the  way,  in  applying  for 
them,  you  must  call  them  Gun,  Machine,  Light 
Vickers,  Washers  for  lock  of,  two.  That 
is  the  way  we  always  talk  at  the  Ordnance 
Office.  An  Ordnance  officer  refers  to  his 
wife's  mother  as  Law,  Mother-in-,  one  —  you 
should  state  when  the  old  washers  were  lost, 
and  by  whom;  also  why  they  were  lost,  and 
where  they  are  now.  Then  write  a  short 


134    THE   FIKST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

history  of  the  machine-gun  from  which  they 
were  lost,  giving  date  and  place  of  birth, 
together  with  a  statement  of  the  exact  num- 
ber of  rounds  which  it  has  fired  —  a  machine- 
gun  fires  about  five  hundred  rounds  a  min- 
ute—  adding  the  name  and  military  record 
of  the  pack-animal  which  usually  carries  it. 
When  you  have  filled  up  this  document  you 
forward  it  to  the  proper  quarter  and  await 
results. 

The  game  then  proceeds  on  simple  and 
automatic  lines.  If  your  application  is  re- 
ferred back  to  you  not  more  than  five  times, 
and  if  you  get  your  washers  within  three 
months  of  the  date  of  application,  you  are 
the  winner.  If  you  get  something  else  instead 
—  say  an  aeroplane,  or  a  hundred  wash-hand 
basins  —  it  is  a  draw.  But  the  chances  are 
that  you  lose. 

Consider.  By  the  rules  of  the  game,  if 
Olympus  can  think  of  a  single  detail  which 
has  not  been  thought  of  by  you  —  for  instance, 
if  you  omit  to  mention  that  the  lost  washers 
were  circular  in  shape  and  had  holes  through 
the  middle  —  you  are  ipso  facto  disqualified, 
under  Eule  One.  Eule  Two,  also,  is  liable 
to  trip  you  up.  Possibly  you  may  have 
written  the  pack-mule's  name  in  sinall  block 
capitals,  instead  of  ordinary  italics  underlined 
in  red  ink,  or  put  the  date  in  Koman  figures 
instead  of  Arabic  numerals.  If  you  do  this, 
your  application  is  referred  back  to  you,  and 
you  lose  a  life.  And  even  if  you  survive 


OLYMPUS  135 

Rules  One  and  Two,  Rule  Three  will  probably 
get  you  in  the  end.  Under  its  provision  your 
application  must  be  framed  in  such  language 
and  addressed  in  such  a  manner  that  it  passes 
through  every  department  and  sub-depart- 
ment of  Olympus  before  it  reaches  the  right 
one.  The  rule  has  its  origin  in  the  principle 
which  governs  the  passing  of  wine  at  well- 
regulated  British  dinner-tables.  That  is,  if 
you  wish  to  offer  a  glass  of  port  to  your 
neighbour  on  your  right,  you  hand  the 
decanter  to  the  neighbour  on  your  left,  so 
that  the  original  object  of  your  hospitality 
receives  it,  probably  empty,  only  after  a 
complete  circuit  of  the  table.  In  the  present 
instance,  the  gentleman  upon  your  right  is 
the  President  of  the  Washer  Department, 
situated  somewhere  in  the  Army  Ordnance 
Office,  the  remaining  guests  representing  the 
other  centres  of  Olympian  activity.  For 
every  department  your  application  misses, 
you  lose  a  life,  three  lost  lives  amounting 
to  disqualification. 

When  the  washers  are  issued,  however, 
the  port- wine  rule  is  abandoned;  and  the 
washers  are  despatched  to  you,  in  defiance 
of  all  the  laws  of  superstition  and  tradition, 
"widdershins,"  or  counter-clockwise.  No 
wonder  articles  thus  jeopardised  often  fail 
to  reach  their  destination ! 

Your  last  fence  comes  when  you  receive  a 
document  from  Olympus  announcing  that  your 
washers  are  now  prepared  for  you,  and  that 


136    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

if  you  will  sign  and  return  the  enclosed  re- 
ceipt they  will  be  sent  off  upon  their  last 
journey.  You  are  now  in  the  worst  dilemma 
of  all.  Olympus  will  not  disgorge  your 
washers  until  it  has  your  receipt.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  you  send  the  receipt,  Olympus 
can  always  win  the  game  by  losing  the  wash- 
ers, and  saying  that  you  have  got  them.  In 
the  face  of  your  own  receipt  you  cannot  very 
well  deny  this.  So  you  lose  your  washers, 
and  the  game,  and  are  also  made  liable  for 
the  misappropriation  of  two  washers,  for 
which  Olympus  holds  your  receipt. 

Truly,  the  gods  play  with  loaded  dice. 

On  the  whole,  the  simplest  (and  almost  uni- 
versal) plan  is  to  convey  a  couple  of  washers 
from  some  one  else's  gun. 

The  game  just  described  is  played  chiefly 
by  officers;  but  this  is  a  democratic  age,  and 
the  rank  and  file  are  now  occasionally  per- 
mitted to  take  part. 

For  example,  boots.  Private  M'Splae  is 
the  possessor,  we  will  say,  of  a  pair  of  flat 
feet,  or  arched  insteps,  or  other  military  in- 
commodities,  and  his  regulation  boots  do  not 
fit  him.  More  than  that,  they  hurt  him  ex- 
ceedingly, and  as  he  is  compelled  to  wear 
them  through  daily  marches  of  several  miles, 
they  gradually  wear  a  hole  in  his  heel,  or 
a  groove  in  his  instep,  or  a  gathering  on  his 
great  toe.  So  he  makes  the  first  move  in  the 
game,  and  reports  sick  —  "sair  feet." 


OLYMPUS  137 

The  Medical  Officer,  a  terribly  efficient  in- 
dividual, keenly  —  sometimes  too  keenly  — 
alert  for  signs  of  malingering,  takes  a  cursory 
glance  at  M'Splae's  feet,  and  directs  the 
patient's  attention  to  the  healing  properties 
of  soap  and  water.  M'Splae  departs,  grum- 
bling, and  reappears  on  sick  parade  a  few 
days  later,  palpably  worse.  This  time,  the 
M.O.  being  a  little  less  pressed  with  work, 
M'Splae  is  given  a  dressing  for  his  feet, 
coupled  with  a  recommendation  to  procure 
a  new  pair  of  boots  without  delay.  If 
M'Splae  is  a  novice  in  regimental  diplomacy, 
he  will  thereupon  address  himself  to  his  pla- 
toon sergeant,  who  will  consign  him,  elo- 
quently, to  a  destination  where  only  boots 
with  asbestos  soles  will  be  of  any  use.  If 
he  is  an  old  hand,  he  will  simply  cut  his  next 
parade,  and  will  thus,  rather  ingeniously, 
obtain  access  to  his  company  commander, 
being  brought  up  before  him  at  orderly-room 
next  morning  as  a  defaulter.  To  his  cap- 
tain he  explains,  with  simple  dignity,  that 
he  absented  himself  from  parade  because 
he  found  himself  unable  to  "rise  up"  from 
his  bed.  He  then  endeavours,  by  hurriedly 
unlacing  his  boots,  to  produce  his  feet  as 
evidence;  but  is  frustrated,  and  awarded 
three  extra  fatigues  for  not  formally  report- 
ing himself  sick  to  the  orderly  sergeant. 
The  real  point  of  issue,  namely,  the  unsuit- 
ability  of  M'Splae's  boots,  again  escapes 
attention. 


138    THE   EIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

There  the  matter  rests  until,  a  few  days 
later,  M'Splae  falls  out  on  a  long  regimental 
route-march,  and  hobbles  home,  chaperoned 
by  a  not  ungrateful  lance-corporal,  in  a  state 
of  semi-collapse.  This  time  the  M.O.  reports 
to  the  captain  that  Private  M'Splae  will  be 
unfit  for  further  duty  until  he  is  provided 
with  a  proper  pair  of  boots.  Are  there  no 
boots  in  the  quartermaster's  store? 

The  captain  explains  that  there  are  plenty 
of  boots,  but  that  under  the  rules  of  the 
present  round  game  no  one  has  any  power 
to  issue  them.  (This  rule  was  put  in  to 
prevent  the  game  from  becoming  too  easy, 
like  the  spot-barred  rule  in  billiards.)  It 
is  a  fact  well  known  to  Olympus  that  no 
regimental  officer  can  be  trusted  with  boots. 
Not  even  the  colonel  can  gain  access  to  the 
regimental  boot  store.  For  all  Olympus  can 
tell,  he  might  draw  a  pair  of  boots  and  wear 
them  himself,  or  dress  his  children  up  in 
them,  or  bribe  the  brigadier  with  them,  in- 
stead of  issuing  them  to  Private  M'Splae. 
No,  Olympus  thinks  it  wiser  not  to  put  temp- 
tation in  the  way  of  underpaid  officers.  So 
the  boots  remain  locked  up,  and  the  taxpayer 
is  protected. 

But  to  be  just,  there  is  always  a  solution 
to  an  Olympian  enigma,  if  you  have  the 
patience  to  go  on  looking  for  it.  In  this 
case  the  proper  proceeding  is  for  all  con- 
cerned, including  the  prostrate  M'Splae,  to 
wait  patiently  for  a  Board  to  sit.  No  date 


OLYMPUS  139 

is  assigned  for  this  event,  but  it  is  bound  to 
occur  sooner  or  later,  like  a  railway  acci- 
dent or  an  eclipse  of  the  moon.  So  one  day, 
out  of  a  cloudless  sky,  a  Board  materialises, 
and  sits  on  M'Splae's  boots.  If  M'Splae's 
company  commander  happens  to  be  presi- 
dent of  the  Board  the  boots  are  condemned, 
and  the  portals  of  the  quarter-master's  store 
swing  open  for  a  brief  moment  to  emit  a 
new  pair. 

When  M'Splae  comes  out  of  hospital,  the 
boots,  provided  no  one  has  appropriated  them 
during  the  term  of  his  indisposition,  are  his. 
He  puts  them  on,  to  find  that  they  pinch  him 
in  the  same  place  as  the  old  pair. 

Then  there  is  the  Fairy  Godmother  Depart- 
ment, which  supplies  us  with  unexpected 
treats.  It  is  the  smallest  department  on 
Olympus,  and,  like  most  philanthropic  in- 
stitutions,  is  rather  unaccountable  in  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  distributes  its  favours.  It 
is  somewhat  hampered  in  its  efforts,  too, 
by  the  Practical  Joke  Department,  which 
appears  to  exercise  a  sort  of  general  right 
of  interference  all  over  Olympus.  For  in- 
stance, the  Fairy  Godmother  Department  de- 
crees that  officers  from  Indian  regiments, 
who  were  home  on  leave  when  the  War  broke 
out  and  were  commandeered  for  service  with 
the  Expeditionary  Force,  shall  continue  to 
draw  pay  on  the  Indian  scale,  which  is  con- 
siderably higher  than  that  which  prevails 


140    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

at  home.  So  far,  so  good.  But  the  Practical 
Joke  Department  hears  of  this,  and  scents 
an  opportunity,  in  the  form  of  "deductions." 
It  promptly  bleeds  the  beneficiaire  of  certain 
sums  per  day,  for  quarters,  horse  allowance, 
forage,  and  the  like.  It  is  credibly  reported 
that  one  of  these  warriors,  on  emerging  from 
a  week's  purgatory  in  a  Belgian  trench, 
found  that  his  accommodation  therein  had 
been  charged  against  him,  under  the  head  of 
"lodgings,"  at  the  rate  of  two  shillings  and 
threepence  a  night ! 

But  sometimes  the  Fairy  Godmother  De- 
partment gets  a  free  hand.  Like  a  benevolent 
maiden  aunt,  she  unexpectedly  drops  a  twenty- 
pound  note  into  your  account  at  Cox's  Bank, 
murmuring  something  vague  about  "addi- 
tional outfit  allowance";  and  as  Mr.  Cox 
makes  a  point  of  backing  her  up  in  her  little 
secret,  you  receive  a  delightful  surprise  next 
time  you  open  your  pass-book. 

She  has  the  family  instinct  for  detail,  too, 
this  Fairy  Godmother.  Perhaps  the  electric 
light  in  your  bedroom  fails,  and  for  three 
days  you  have  to  sit  in  the  dark  or  purchase 
candles.  An  invisible  but  observant  little 
cherub  notes  this  fact;  and  long  afterwards 
a  postal  order  for  tenpence  flutters  down 
upon  you  from  Olympus,  marked  "light  al- 
lowance." Once  Bobby  Little  received  a 
mysterious  postal  order  for  one-and-five- 
pence.  It  was  in  the  early  days  of  his 
novitiate,  before  he  had  ceased  to  question 


OLYMPUS  141 

the  workings  of  Providence.  So  he  made 
inquiries,  and  after  prolonged  investigation 
discovered  the  source  of  the  windfall.  On 
field  service  an  officer  is  entitled  to  a  certain 
sum  per  day  as  "field  allowance."  In  bar- 
racks, however,  possessing  a  bedroom  and 
other  indoor  comforts,  he  receives  no  such 
gratuity.  Now  Bobby  had  once  been  com- 
pelled to  share  his  room  for  a  few  nights  with 
a  newly-joined  and  homeless  subaltern.  He 
was  thus  temporarily  rendered  the  owner  of 
only  half  a  bedroom.  Or,  to  put  it  another 
way,  only  half  of  him  was  able  to  sleep  in 
barracks.  Obviously,  then,  the  other  half 
was  on  field  service,  and  Bobby  was  there- 
fore entitled  to  half  field  allowance.  Hence 
the  one-and-fivepence.  I  tell  you,  little  es- 
capes them  on  Olympus.  So  does  much,  but 
that  is  another  story. 

Last  of  all  comes  the  Practical  Joke  De- 
partment. It  covers  practically  all  of  one 
side  of  Olympus  —  the  shady  side. 

The  jokes  usually  take  the  form  of  an 
order,  followed  by  a  counter-order.  For 
example  — 

In  his  magisterial  days  Ayling,  of  whom  we 
have  previously  heard,  was  detailed  by  his 
Headmaster  to  undertake  the  organisation  of 
a  school  corps  to  serve  as  a  unit  of  the  Officers ' 
Training  Corps  —  then  one  of  the  spoilt  bant- 
lings of  the  War  Office.  Being  a  vigorous 
and  efficient  young  man,  Ayling  devoted  four 


142    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

weeks  of  Ms  summer  holiday  to  a  course  o"f 
training  with  a  battalion  of  regulars  at  Alder- 
shot.  During  that  period,  as  the  prospective 
commander  of  a  company,  he  was  granted  the 
pay  and  provisional  rank  of  captain,  which  all 
will  admit  was  handsome  enough  treatment. 
Three  months  later,  when  after  superhuman 
struggles  he  had  pounded  his  youthful  legion- 
aries into  something  like  efficiency,  his  ap- 
pointment to  a  commission  was  duly  confirmed, 
and  he  found  himself  gazetted  —  Second  Lieu- 
tenant. In  addition  to  this,  he  was  required 
to  refund  to  the  Practical  Joke  Department 
the  difference  between  second  lieutenant's  pay 
and  the  captain's  pay  which  he  had  received 
during  his  month's  training  at  Aldershot! 

But  in  these  strenuous  days  the  Department 
has  no  time  for  baiting  individuals.  It  has 
two  or  three  millions  of  men  to  sharpen  its 
wit  upon.  Its  favourite  pastime  at  present  is 
a  sort  of  giant 's  game  of  chess,  the  fair  face  of 
England  serving  as  board,  and  the  various 
units  of  the  K.  armies  as  pieces.  The  object 
of  the  players  is  to  get  each  piece  through  as 
many  squares  as  possible  in  a  given  time,  it 
being  clearly  understood  that  no  move  shall 
count  unless  another  piece  is  evicted  in  the 
process.  For  instance,  we,  the  xih  Brigade  of 
the  7/th  Division,  are  suddenly  uprooted  from 
billets  at  A  and  planted  down  in  barracks  at 
B,  displacing  the  pih  Brigade  of  the  qfh  Divi- 
sion in  the  operation.  We  have  barely  cleaned 
up  after  the  pih  —  an  Augean  task  —  and 


OLYMPUS  143 

officers  have  just  concluded  messing,  'fur- 
nishing, and  laundry  arrangements  with  the 
local  banditti,  when  the  Practical  Joke  De- 
partment, with  its  tongue  in  its  cheek,  bids  us 
prepare  to  go  under  canvas  at  C.  Married 
officers  hurriedly  despatch  advance  parties, 
composed  of  their  wives,  to  secure  houses  or 
lodgings  in  the  bleak  and  inhospitable  environs 
of  their  new  station;  while  a  rapidly  ageing 
Mess  President  concludes  yet  another  demor- 
alising bargain  with  a  ruthless  and  omnipo- 
tent caterer.  Then  —  this  is  the  cream  of  the 
joke  —  the  day  before  we  expect  to  move,  the 
Practical  Joke  Department  puts  out  a  play- 
ful hand  and  sweeps  us  all  into  some  half- 
completed  huts  at  D,  somewhere  at  the  other 
end  of  the  Ordnance  map,  and  leaves  us  there, 
with  a  happy  chuckle,  to  sink  or  swim  in  an 
Atlantic  of  mud. 

So  far  as  one  is  able  to  follow  the  scoring  of 
the  game,  some  of  the  squares  in  the  chess- 
board are  of  higher  value  than  others.  For 
instance,  if  you  are  dumped  down  into  com- 
paratively modern  barracks  at  Aldershot, 
which,  although  they  contain  no  furniture, 
are  at  least  weatherproof  and  within  reach  of 
shops,  the  Practical  Joke  Department  scores 
one  point.  Barracks  condemned  as  unsafe 
and  insanitary  before  the  war,  but  now 
reckoned  highly  eligible,  count  three  points; 
rat-ridden  billets  count  five.  But  if  you  can 
manoeuvre  your  helpless  pawns  into  Mud- 
splosh  Camp,  you  receive  ten  whole  points, 


144    THE  FIRST  HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

with  a  bonus  of  two  points  thrown  in  if  you 
can  effect  the  move  without  previous  notice 
of  any  kind. 

We  are  in  Mudsplosh  Camp  to-day.  In 
transferring  us  here  the  Department  secured 
full  points,  including  bonus. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  we 
are  decrying  our  present  quarters.  Mud- 
splosh  Camp  is  —  or  is  going  to  be  —  a  nobly 
planned  and  admirably  equipped  military 
centre.  At  present  it  consists  of  some  three 
hundred  wooden  huts,  in  all  stages  of  con- 
struction, covering  about  twenty  acres  of 
high  moorland.  The  huts  are  heated  with 
stoves,  and  will  be  delightfully  warm  when 
we  get  some  coal.  They  are  lit  by  —  or 
rather  wired  for  —  electric  light.  Meanwhile 
a  candle-end  does  well  enough  for  a  room  only 
a  hundred  feet  long.  There  are  numerous 
other  adjuncts  to  our  comfort  —  wash-houses, 
for  instance.  These  will  be  invaluable,  when 
the  water  is  laid  on.  For  the  present,  there 
is  a  capital  standpipe  not  a  hundred  yards 
away ;  and  all  you  have  to  do,  if  you  want  an 
invigorating  scrub,  is  to  wait  your  turn  for 
one  of  the  two  tin  basins  supplied  to  each 
fifty  men,  and  then  splash  to  your  heart's 
content.  There  is  a  spacious  dining-hall; 
and  as  soon  as  the  roof  is  on,  our  successors, 
or  their  successors,  will  make  merry  therein. 
Meanwhile,  there  are  worse  places  to  eat  one's 
dinner  than  the  floor  —  the  mud  outside,  for 
instance. 


OLYMPUS  145 

The  stables  are  lofty  and  well  ventilated. 
At  least,  we  are  sure  they  will  be.  Pending 
their  completion  the  horses  and  mules  are 
very  comfortable,  picketed  on  the  edge  of  the 
moor.  .  .  .  After  all,  there  are  only  sixty  of 
them;  and  most  of  them  have  rugs;  and  it 
can 't  possibly  go  on  snowing  for  ever. 

The  only  other  architectural  feature  of  the 
camp  is  the  steriliser,  which  has  been  work- 
ing night  and  day  ever  since  we  arrived.  No, 
it  does  not  sterilise  water  or  milk,  or  any- 
thing of  that  kind  —  only  blankets.  Those 
men  standing  in  a  queue  at  its  door  are  carry- 
ing their  bedding.  (Yes,  quite  so.  When 
blankets  are  passed  from  regiment  to  regi- 
ment for  months  on  end,  in  a  camp  where 
opportunities  for  ablution  are  not  lavish, 
these  little  things  will  happen.) 

You  put  the  blankets  in  at  one  end  of  the 
steriliser,  turn  the  necessary  handles,  and 
wait.  In  due  course  the  blankets  emerge, 
steamed,  dried,  and  thoroughly  purged.  At 
least,  that  is  the  idea.  But  listen  to  Privates 
,0gg  and  Hogg,  in  one  of  their  celebrated 
cross-talk  duologues. 

Ogg  (examining  Ms  blanket}.  "They're  a' 
there  yet.  See!" 

Hogg  (an  optimist).  "Aye;  but  they  must 
have  gotten  an  awfu'  fricht!" 

But  then  people  like  Ogg  are  never  satis- 
fied with  anything. 

However,  the  feature  of  this  camp  is  the 
mud.  That  is  why  it  counts  ten  points.  There 


146    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

was  no  mud,  of  course,  before  the  camp  was 
constructed  —  only  dry  turf,  and  wild  yel- 
low gorse,  and  fragrant  heather.  But  the 
Practical  Joke  Department  were  not  to  be 
discouraged  by  the  superficial  beauties  of 
nature.  They  knew  that  if  you  crowd  a 
large  number  of  human  dwellings  close  to- 
gether, and  refrain  from  constructing  any 
roads  or  drains  as  a  preliminary,  and  fill 
these  buildings  with  troops  in  the  rainy  sea- 
son, you  will  soon  have  as  much  mud  as  ever 
you  require.  And  they  were  quite  right. 
The  depth  varies  from  a  few  inches  to  about 
a  foot.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  camp,  how- 
ever, especially  by  the  horse  lines  or  going 
through  a  gate,  you  may  find  yourself  up  to 
your  knees.  But,  after  all,  what  is  mud? 
Most  of  the  officers  have  gum-boots,  and  the 
men  will  probably  get  used  to  it.  Life  in 
K(l)  is  largely  composed  of  getting  used  to 
things. 

In  the  more  exclusive  and  fashionable  dis- 
tricts—  round  about  the  Orderly-room,  and 
the  Canteen,  and  the  Guard-room  —  elevated 
"duck-walks"  are  laid  down,  along  which  we 
delicately  pick  our  way.  It  would  warm  the 
heart  of  a  democrat  to  observe  the  ready  — 
nay,  hasty  —  courtesy  with  which  an  officer, 
on  meeting  a  private  carrying  two  over- 
flowing buckets  of  kitchen  refuse,  steps  down 
into  the  mud  to  let  his  humble  brother-in- 
arms pass.  Where  there  are  no  duck-walks, 
we  employ  planks  laid  across  the  mud.  In 


OLYMPUS  147 

/  

comparatively  dry  weather  these  planks  lie 
some  two  or  three  inches  below  the  mud,  and 
much  innocent  amusement  may  be  derived 
from  trying  to  locate  them.  In  wet  weather, 
however,  the  planks  float  to  the  surface,  and 
then  of  course  everything  is  plain  sailing. 
When  it  snows,  we  feel  for  the  planks  with 
our  feet.  If  we  find  them  we  perform  an 
involuntary  and  unpremeditated  ski-ing  act: 
if  we  fail,  we  wade  to  our  quarters  through 
a  sort  of  neapolitan  ice  —  snow  on  the  top, 
mud  underneath. 

Our  parade-ground  is  a  mud-flat  in  front  of 
the  huts.  Here  we  take  our  stand  each 
morning,  sinking  steadily  deeper  until  the 
order  is  given  to  move  off.  Then  the  bat- 
talion extricates  itself  with  one  tremendous 
squelch,  and  we  proceed  to  the  labours  of 
the  day. 

Seriously,  though  —  supposing  the  com- 
manding officer  were  to  be  delayed  one  morn- 
ing at  orderly-room,  and  were  to  ride  on  to 
the  parade-ground  twenty  minutes  late,  what 
would  he  find?  Nothing!  Nothing  but  a 
great  parterre  of  glengarries,  perched  upon 
the  mud  in  long  parallel  rows,  each  glengarry 
flanked  on  the  left-hand  side  by  the  muzzle 
of  a  rifle  at  the  slope.  (That  detached  patch 
over  there  on  the  left  front,  surrounded  by 
air-bubbles,  is  the  band.  That  cavity  like 
the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano,  in  Number 
one  Platoon  of  A  Company,  was  once  Pri- 
vate Mucklewame.) 


148    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

And  yet  people  talk  about  the  sinking  of  the 
Birkenhead! 

This  morning  some  one  in  the  Department 
has  scored  another  ten  points.  Word  has 
just  been  received  that  we  are  to  move  again 
to-morrow  —  to  a  precisely  similar  set  of  huts 
about  a  hundred  yards  away ! 

They  are  mad  wags  on  Olympus. 


XII 

AND  SOME  FELL  BY  THE  WAYSIDE 

"Firing  parrty,  revairse  arrms!" 

Thus  the  platoon  sergeant  —  a  little  anxi- 
ously; for  we  are  new  to  this  feat,  and  only 
rehearsed  it  for  a  few  minutes  this  morning. 

It  is  a  sunny  afternoon  in  late  February. 
The  winter  of  our  discontent  is  past.  (At 
least,  we  hope  so.)  Comfortless  months  of 
training  are  safely  behind  us,  and  lo !  we  have 
grown  from  a  fortuitous  concourse  of  atoms 
to  a  cohesive  unit  of  fighting  men.  Spring  is 
coming;  spring  is  coming;  our  blood  runs 
quicker;  active  service  is  within  measurable 
distance;  and  the  future  beckons  to  us  with 
both  hands  to  step  down  at  last  into  the  arena, 
and  try  our  fortune  amid  the  uncertain  but 
illimitable  chances  of  the  greatest  game  in  the 
world. 

To  all  of  us,  that  is,  save  one. 

The  road  running  up  the  hill  from  the  little 
mortuary  is  lined  on  either  side  by  members 
of  our  company,  specklessly  turned  out  and 


150    THE   FIRST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 

standing  to  attention.  At  the  foot  of  the 
slope  a  gun-carriage  is  waiting,  drawn  by  two 
great  dray  horses  and  controlled  by  a  private 
of  the  Eoyal  Artillery,  who  looks  incongru- 
ously perky  and  cockney  amid  that  silent, 
kilted  assemblage.  The  firing  party  form  a 
short  lane  from  the  gun-carriage  to  the  door 
of  the  mortuary.  In  response  to  the  ser- 
geant's command,  each  man  turns  over  his 
rifle,  and  setting  the  muzzle  carefully  upon 
his  right  boot  —  after  all,  it  argues  no  extra 
respect  to  the  dead  to  get  your  barrel  filled 
with  mud  —  rests  his  hands  upon  the  butt- 
plate  and  bows  his  head,  as  laid  down  in  the 
King's  Eegulations. 

The  bearers  move  slowly  down  the  path 
from  the  mortuary,  and  place  the  coffin  upon 
the  gun-carriage.  Upon  the  lid  lie  a  very 
dingy  glengarry,  a  stained  leather  belt,  and  a 
bayonet.  They  are  humble  trophies,  but  we 
pay  them  as  much  reverence  as  we  would  to 
the  baton  and  cocked  hat  of  a  field-marshal, 
for  they  are  the  insignia  of  a  man  who  has 
given  his  life  for  his  country. 

On  the  hill-top  above  us,  where  the  great 
military  hospital  rears  its  clock-tower  four- 
square to  the  sky,  a  line  of  convalescents,  in 
natty  blue  uniforms  with  white  facings  and 
red  ties,  lean  over  the  railings  deeply  inter- 
ested. Some  of  them  are  bandaged,  others  are 
in  slings,  and  all  are  more  or  less  maimed. 
They  follow  the  obsequies  below  with  critical 
approval.  They  have  been  present  at  enough 


SOME   FELL   BY   THE   WAYSIDE      151 

hurried  and  promiscuous  interments  of  late  — 
more  than  one  of  them  has  only  just  escaped 
being  the  central  figure  at  one  of  these  func- 
tions —  that  they  are  capable  of  appreciating 
a  properly  conducted  funeral  at  its  true  value. 

"They're  putting  away  a  bloomin'  Jock," 
remarks  a  gentleman  with  an  empty  sleeve. 

"And  very  nice,  too!"  responds  another  on 
crutches,  as  the  firing  party  present  arms  with 
creditable  precision.  "Not  'arf  a  bad  bit  of 
eye-wash  at  all  for  a  bandy-legged  lot  of  coal- 
shovellers." 

"That  lot's  out  of  K(l),"  explains  a  well- 
informed  invalid  with  his  head  in  bandages. 
"Pretty  'ot  stuff  they're  gettin'.  Tres  mou- 
tarde  !  Now  we  're  off. ' ' 

The  signal  is  passed  up  the  road  to  the 
band,  who  are  waiting  at  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession, and  the  pipes  break  into  a  lament. 
Corporals  step  forward  and  lay  four  wreaths 
upon  the  coffin  —  one  from  each  company. 
Not  a  man  in  the  battalion  has  failed  to  con- 
tribute his  penny  to  those  wreaths ;  and  pen- 
nies are  not  too  common  with  us,  especially  on 
a  Thursday,  which  comes  just  before  pay-day. 
The  British  private  is  commonly  reputed  to 
spend  all,  or  most  of,  his  pocket-money  upon 
beer.  But  I  can  tell  you  this,  that  if  you  give 
him  his  choice  between  buying  himself  a  pint 
of  beer  and  subscribing  to  a  wreath,  he  will 
most  decidedly  go  thirsty. 

The  serio-comic  charioteer  gives  his  reins 
a  twitch,  the  horses  wake  up,  and  the  gun- 


152    THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

carriage  begins  to  move  slowly  along  the  lane 
of  mourners.  As  the  dead  private  passes  on 
his  way  the  walls  of  the  lane  melt,  and  his 
comrades  fall  into  their  usual  fours  behind 
the  gun-carriage. 

So  we  pass  up  the  hill  towards  the  military 
cemetery,  with  the  pipes  wailing  their  hearts 
out,  and  the  muffled  drums  marking  the  time 
of  our  regulation  slow  step.  Each  foot  seems 
to  hang  in  the  air  before  the  drums  bid  us  put 
it  down. 

In  the  very  rear  of  the  procession  you  may 
see  the  company  commander  and  three  sub- 
alterns. They  give  no  orders,  and  exact  no 
attention.  To  employ  a  colloquialism,  this  is 
not  their  funeral. 

Just  behind  the  gun-carriage  stalks  a  soli- 
tary figure  in  civilian  clothes  —  the  unmistak- 
able " blacks"  of  an  Elder  of  the  Kirk.  At 
first  sight,  you  have  a  feeling  that  some  one 
has  strayed  into  the  procession  who  has  no 
right  there.  But  no  one  has  a  better.  The 
sturdy  old  man  behind  the  coffin  is  named 
Adam  Carmichael,  and  he  is  here,  having 
travelled  south  from  Dumbarton  by  the  night 
train,  to  attend  the  funeral  of  his  only  son. 


Peter  Carmichael  was  one  of  the  first  to 
enlist  in  the  regiment.  There  was  another 
Carmichael  in  the  same  company,  so  Peter  at 


SOME   FELL   BY   THE   WAYSIDE      153 

roll-call  was  usually  addressed  by  the  sergeant 
as  "Twenty-seven  fufty-fower  Carmichael, ' ' 
2754  being  Ms  regimental  number.  The  army 
does  not  encourage  Christian  names.  When 
his  attestation  paper  was  filled  up,  he  gave  his 
age  as  nineteen ;  his  address,  vaguely,  as  Ren- 
frewshire ;  and  his  trade,  not  without  an  air, 
as  a  "holder-on."  To  the  mystified  Bobby 
Little  he  entered  upon  a  lengthy  explanation 
of  the  term  in  a  language  composed  almost 
entirely  of  vowels,  from  which  that  officer 
gathered,  dimly,  that  holding-on  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  shipbuilding. 

Upon  the  barrack  square  his  platoon  com- 
mander 's  attention  was  again  drawn  to  Peter, 
owing  to  the  passionate  enthusiasm  with 
which  he  performed  the  simplest  evolutions, 
such  as  forming  fours  and  sloping  arms  — 
military  exercises  which  do  not  intrigue  the 
average  private  to  any  great  extent.  Unfor- 
tunately, desire  frequently  outran  perform- 
ance. Peter  was  undersized,  unmuscular,  and 
extraordinarily  clumsy.  For  a  long  time 
Bobby  Little  thought  that  Peter,  like  one 
or  two  of  his  comrades,  was  left-handed,  so 
made  allowances.  Ultimately  he  discovered 
that  his  indulgence  was  misplaced:  Peter 
was  equally  incompetent  with  either  hand. 
He  took  longer  in  learning  to  fix  bayonets 
or  present  arms  than  any  other  man  in  the 
platoon.  To  be  fair,  Nature  had  done  little 
to  help  him.  He  was  thirty-three  inches 
round  the  chest,  five  feet  four  in  height, 


154    THE   FIEST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 

and  weighed  possibly  nine  stone.  His  com- 
plexion was  pasty,  and,  as  Captain  Wagstaffe 
remarked,  you  could  hang  your  hat  on  any 
bone  in  his  body.  His  eyesight  was  not  all 
that  the  Eegulations  require,  and  on  the  mus- 
ketry-range he  was  "put  back,"  to  his  deep 
distress,  "for  further  instruction."  Alto- 
gether, if  you  had  not  known  the  doctor  who 
passed  him,  you  would  have  said  it  was  a 
mystery  how  he  passed  the  doctor. 

But  he  possessed  the  one  essential  attribute 
of  the  soldier.  He  had  a  big  heart.  He  was 
keen.  He  allowed  nothing  to  come  between 
him  and  his  beloved  duties.  ("He  was  aye 
daft  for  to  go  sogerin',"  his  father  explained 
to  Captain  Blaikie;  "but  his  mother  would 
never  let  him  away.  He  was  ower  wee,  and 
ower  young.")  His  rifle,  buttons,  and  boots 
were  always  without  blemish.  Further,  he 
was  of  the  opinion  that  a  merry  heart  goes 
all  the  way.  He  never  sulked  when  the 
platoon  were  kept  on  parade  five  minutes 
after  the  breakfast  bugle  had  sounded.  He 
made  no  bones  about  obeying  orders  and 
saluting  officers  —  acts  of  abasement  which 
grated  sorely  at  times  upon  his  colleagues, 
who  reverenced  no  one  except  themselves 
and  their  Union.  He  appeared  to  revel  in 
muddy  route-marches,  and  invariably  pro- 
voked and  led  the  choruses.  The  men  called 
him  "Wee  Pe'er,"  and  ultimately  adopted 
Mm  as  a  sort  of  company  mascot.  Whereat 
Pe'er's  heart  glowed;  for  when  your  asso- 


SOME   FELL   BY   THE   WAYSIDE      155 

ciates  attach  a  diminutive  to  your  Christian 
name,  you  possess  something  which  million- 
aires would  gladly  give  half  their  fortune  to 
purchase. 

And  certainly  he  required  all  the  social 
success  he  could  win,  for  professionally  Peter 
found  life  a  rigorous  affair.  Sometimes,  as 
he  staggered  into  barracks  after  a  long  day, 
carrying  a  rifle  made  of  lead  and  wearing  a 
pair  of  boots  weighing  a  hundredweight 
apiece,  he  dropped  dead  asleep  on  his  bed- 
ding before  he  could  eat  his  dinner.  But  he 
always  hotly  denied  the  imputation  that  he 
was  "sick." 

Time  passed.  The  regiment  was  shaking 
down.  Seven  of  Peter's  particular  cronies 
were  raised  to  the  rank  of  lance-corporal  — 
but  not  Peter.  He  was  "off  the  square" 
now  —  that  is  to  say,  he  was  done  with  re- 
cruit drill  for  ever.  He  possessed  a  sound 
knowledge  of  advance-guard  and  outpost 
work;  his  conduct-sheet  was  a  blank  page. 
But  he  was  not  promoted.  He  was  "ower 
wee  for  a  stripe,"  he  told  himself.  For  the 
present  he  must  expect  to  be  passed  over. 
His  chance  would  come  later,  when  he  had 
filled  out  a  little  and  got  rid  of  his  cough. 

The  winter  dragged  on:  the  weather  was 
appalling:  the  grousers  gave  tongue  with 
no  uncertain  voice,  each  streaming  field-day. 
But  Wee  Pe'er  enjoyed  it  all.  He  did  not 
care  if  it  snowed  ink.  He  was  a  ' t  so jer. ' ' 

One    day,    to    his    great    delight,    he    was 


156    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

"warned  for  guard"  —  a  particularly  un- 
popular branch  of  a  soldier's  duties,  for  it 
means  sitting  in  the  guard-room  for  twenty- 
four  hours  at  a  stretch,  fully  dressed  and 
accoutred,  with  intervals  of  sentry-go,  usu- 
ally in  heavy  rain,  by  way  of  exercise.  When 
Peter's  turn  for  sentry-go  came  on  he  splashed 
up  and  down  his  muddy  beat  —  the  battalion 
was  in  billets  now,  and  the  usual  sentry's 
verandah  was  lacking  —  as  proud  as  a  pea- 
cock, saluting  officers  according  to  their  rank, 
challenging  stray  civilians  with  great  sever- 
ity, and  turning  out  the  guard  on  the  slight- 
est provocation.  He  was  at  his  post,  soaked 
right  through  his  greatcoat,  when  the  orderly 
officer  made  his  night  round.  Peter  sum- 
moned his  colleagues;  the  usual  inspection 
of  the  guard  took  place;  and  the  sleepy 
men  were  then  dismissed  to  their  fireside. 
Peter  remained;  the  officer  hesitated.  He 
was  supposed  to  examine  the  sentry  in  his 
knowledge  of  his  duties.  It  was  a  profit- 
less task  as  a  rule.  The  tongue-tied  youth 
merely  gaped  like  a  stranded  fish,  until  the 
sergeant  mercifully  intervened,  in  some  such 
words  as  these  — 

"This  man,  sirr,  is  liable  to  get  over-excited 
when  addressed  by  an  officer. " 

Then,  soothingly  — 

"Now,  Jimmy,  tell  the  officer  what  would 
ye  dae  in  case  of  fire  I ' ' 

"Present  airrms!"  announces  the  desperate 
James.  Or  else,  almost  tearfully,  "I  canna 


SOME    FELL   BY   THE   WAYSIDE      157 

mind.  I  had  it  all  fine  just  noo,  but  it's  awa' 
oot  o'  ma  heid!" 

Therefore  it  was  with  no  great  sense  of 
anticipation  that  the  orderly  officer  said  to 
Private  Carmichael,  — 

"Now,  sentry,  can  you  repeat  any  of  your 
duties?" 

Peter  saluted,  took  a  full  breath,  closed 
both  eyes,  and  replied  rapidly,  — 

"For  tae  tak'  chairge  of  all  Government 
property  within  sicht  of  this  guairdhoose 
tae  turrn  out  the  guaird  for  all  arrmed 
pairties  approaching  also  the  commanding 
officer  once  a  day  tae  salute  all  officers  tae 
challenge  all  pairsons  approaching  this  post 
tae " 

His  recital  was  interrupted  by  a  fit  of 
coughing. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  officer  hastily;  "that 
will  do.  Good  night ! ' ' 

Peter,  not  sure  whether  it  would  be  correct 
to  say  "good  night"  too,  saluted  again,  and 
returned  to  his  cough. 

"I  say,"  said  the  officer,  turning  back,  "you 
have  a  shocking  cold." 

"Och,  never  heed  it,  sirr,"  gasped  Peter 
politely. 

"Call  the  sergeant,"  said  the  officer. 

The  fat  sergeant  came  out  of  the  guard- 
house again,  buttoning  his  tunic. 

"Sirr?" 

"Take  this  man  off  sentry-duty  and  roast 
him  at  the  guard-room  fire." 


158    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"I  will,  sirr,"  replied  the  sergeant;  and 
added  paternally,  "this  man  has  no  right 
for  to  be  here  at  all.  He  should  have  re- 
ported sick  when  warned  for  guard;  but  he 
would  not.  He  is  very  attentive  to  his  duties, 
sirr." 

"Good  boy!"  said  the  officer  to  Peter.  "I 
wish  we  had  more  like  you." 

Wee  Pe'er  blushed,  his  teeth  momentarily 
ceased  chattering,  his  heart  swelled.  Appear- 
ances to  the  contrary,  he  felt  warm  all  through. 
The  sergeant  laid  a  fatherly  hand  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"Go  you  your  ways  intil  the  guard-room, 
boy,"  he  commanded,  "and  send  oot  Dunshie. 
He'll  no  hurt.  Get  close  in  ahint  the  stove, 
or  you'll  be  for  Cambridge!" 

(The  last  phrase  carries  no  academic  signi- 
ficance. It  simply  means  that  you  are  likely 
to  become  an  inmate  of  the  great  Cambridge 
Hospital  at  Aldershot.) 

Peter,  feeling  thoroughly  disgraced,  cast 
an  appealing  look  at  the  officer. 

"In  you  go!"  said  that  martinet. 

Peter  silently  obeyed.  It  was  the  only  time 
in  his  life  that  he  ever  felt  mutinous. 

A  month  later  Brigade  Training  set  in  with 
customary  severity.  The  life  of  company 
officers  became  a  burden.  They  spent  hours 
in  thick  woods  with  their  followers,  taking 
cover,  ostensibly  from  the  enemy,  in  reality 
from  brigade-majors  and  staff  officers.  A  sub- 


SOME   FELL   BY   THE   WAYSIDE      159 

altern  never  tied  Ms  platoon  in  a  knot  but 
a  general  came  trotting  round  the  corner. 
The  wet  weather  had  ceased,  and  a  biting 
east  wind  reigned  in  its  stead. 

On  one  occasion  an  elaborate  night  opera- 
tion was  arranged.  Four  battalions  were  to 
assemble  at  a  given  point  five  miles  from 
camp,  and  then  advance  in  column  across 
country  by  the  light  of  the  stars  to  a  position 
indicated  on  the  map,  where  they  were  to  de- 
ploy and  dig  themselves  in !  It  sounded  simple 
enough  in  operation  orders ;  but  when  you  try 
to  move  four  thousand  troops  —  even  well- 
trained  troops  —  across  three  miles  of  broken 
country  on  a  pitch-dark  night,  there  is  always 
a  possibility  that  some  one  will  get  mislaid. 
On  this  particular  occasion  a  whole  battalion 
lost  itself  without  any  delay  or  difficulty  what- 
soever. The  other  three  were  compelled 
to  wait  for  two  hours  and  a  half,  stamping 
their  feet  and  blowing  on  their  fingers,  while 
overheated  staff  officers  scoured  the  country 
for  the  truants.  They  were  discovered  at 
last  waiting  virtuously  at  the  wrong  rendez- 
vous, three-quarters  of  a  mile  away.  The 
brazen-hatted  strategist  who  drew  up  the 
operation  orders  had  given  the  point  of 
assembly  for  the  brigade  as:  ...  the  field 
S.W.  of  WELLINGTON  WOOD  and  due  E.  of 
HANGMAN'S  COPSE,  immediately  below  the  first 
O  in  GHOSTLY  BOTTOM,  —  but  omitted  to  under- 
line the  O  indicated.  The  result  was  that 
three  battalion  commanders  assembled  at  the 


160    THE   PIEST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 

O  in  "ghostly,"  while  the  fourth,  ignoring 
the  adjective  in  favour  of  the  noun,  took  up 
his  station  at  the  first  0  in  " bottom." 

The  operations  had  been  somewhat  optim- 
istically timed  to  end  at  11  P.M.,  but  by  the 
time  that  the  four  battalions  had  effected  a 
most  unloverly  tryst,  it  was  close  on  ten, 
and  beginning  to  rain.  The  consequence 
was  that  the  men  got  home  to  bed,  soaked 
to  the  skin,  and  asking  the  Powers  Above 
rhetorical  questions,  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

Next  day  Brigade  Orders  announced  that 
the  movement  would  be  continued  at  night- 
fall, by  the  occupation  of  the  hastily-dug 
trenches,  followed  by  a  night  attack  upon  the 
hill  in  front.  The  captured  position  would 
then  be  retrenched. 

When  the  tidings  went  round,  fourteen  of 
the  more  quick-witted  spirits  of  "A"  Com- 
pany hurriedly  paraded  before  the  Medical 
Officer  and  announced  that  they  were  "sick 
in  the  stomach."  Seven  more  discovered 
abrasions  upon  their  feet,  and  proffered  their 
sores  for  inspection,  after  the  manner  of 
Oriental  mendicants.  One  skrimshanker, 
despairing  of  producing  any  bodily  ailment, 
rather  ingeniously  assaulted  a  comrade-in- 
arms, and  was  led  away,  deeply  grateful,  to 
the  guard-room.  Wee  Peter,  who  in  the 
course  of  last  night's  operations  had  stumbled 
into  an  old  trench  half-filled  with  ice-cold 


SOME   FELL   BY   THE   WAYSIDE      161 

water,  and  whose  temperature  to-day,  had 
he  known  it,  was  a  hundred  and  two,  paraded 
with  his  company  at  the  appointed  time. 
The  company,  he  reflected,  would  get  a  bad 
name  if  too  many  men  reported  sick  at 
once. 

Next  day  he  was  absent  from  parade.  He 
was  "for  Cambridge"  at  last. 

Before  he  died,  he  sent  for  the  officer  who 
had  befriended  him,  and  supplemented,  or 
rather  corrected,  some  of  the  information 
contained  in  his  attestation  paper. 

He  lived  in  Dumbarton,  not  Eenfrewshire. 
He  was  just  sixteen.  He  was  not  —  this  con- 
fession cost  him  a  great  effort  —  a  full-blown 
"holder-on"  at  all;  only  an  apprentice.  His 
father  was  "weel  kent"  in  the  town  of  Dum- 
barton, being  a  chief  engineer,  employed  by 
a  great  firm  of  shipbuilders  to  extend  new 
machinery  on  trial  trips. 

Needless  to  say,  he  made  a  great  fight. 
But  though  his  heart  was  big  enough,  his 
body  was  too  frail.  As  they  say  on  the  sea, 
he  was  over-engined  for  his  beam. 

And  so,  three  days  later,  the  simple  soul  of 
Twenty-seven  fifty-four  Carmichael,  "A" 
Company,  was  transferred,  on  promotion,  to 
another  company  —  the  great  Company  of 
Happy  Warriors  who  walk  the  Elysian 
Fields. 


163    THE   FIKST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 


in 


"Firing  parrty,  one  round  blank  —  load!" 

There  is  a  rattle  of  bolts,  and  a  dozen 
barrels  are  pointed  heavenwards.  The  com- 
pany stands  rigid,  except  the  buglers,  who  are 
beginning  to  finger  their  instruments. 

"Fire!" 

There  is  a  crackling  volley,  and  the  pipes 
break  into  a  brief,  sobbing  wail.  Wayfarers 
upon  the  road  below  look  up  curiously.  One 
or  two  young  females  with  perambulators 
come  hurrying  across  the  grass,  exhorting 
apathetic  babies  to  sit  up  and  admire  the 
pretty  funeral. 

Twice  more  the  rifles  ring  out.  The  pipes 
cease  their  wailing,  and  there  is  an  expectant 
silence. 

The  drum-major  crooks  his  little  finger,  and 
eight  bugles  come  to  the  " ready."  Then 
"Last  Post,"  the  requiem  of  every  soldier 
of  the  King,  swells  out,  sweet  and  true. 

The  echoes  lose  themselves  among  the  drip- 
ping pines.  The  chaplain  closes  his  book, 
takes  off  his  spectacles,  and  departs. 

Old  Carmichael  permits  himself  one  brief 
look  into  his  son's  grave,  resumes  his  crape- 
bound  tall  hat,  and  turns  heavily  away.  He 
finds  Captain  Blaikie's  hand  waiting  for  him. 
He  grips  it,  and  says  — 

"Weel,  the  laddie  has  had  a  grand  sojer's 


SOME   FELL   BY   THE   WAYSIDE      163 

funeral.  His  mother  will  be  pleased  to  hear 
that." 

He  passes  on,  and  shakes  hands  with  the 
platoon  sergeant  and  one  or  two  of  Peter's 
cronies.  He  declines  an  invitation  to  the 
Sergeants '  Mess. 

"I  hae  a  trial-trup  the  morn,"  he  explains. 
"I  must  be  steppin'.  God  keep  ye  all,  brave 
lads!" 

The  old  gentleman  sets  off  down  the 
station  road.  The  company  falls  in,  and 
we  march  back  to  barracks,  leaving  Wee 
Pe  'er  —  the  first  name  on  our  Eoll  of  Honour 
—  alone  in  his  glory  beneath  the  Hampshire 
pines. 


XIII 

CONCEET  PITCH 

WE  have  only  two  topics  of  conversation  now 
—  tEe  date  of  our  departure,  and  our  destina- 
tion. Both  are  wrapped  in  mystery  so  pro- 
found that  our  range  of  speculation  is  prac- 
tically unlimited. 

Conjecture  rages  most  fiercely  in  the  Offi- 
cers' Mess,  which  is  in  touch  with  sources 
of  unreliable  information  not  accessible  to  the 
rank  and  file.  The  humblest  subaltern  ap- 
pears to  be  possessed  of  a  friend  at  court, 
or  a  cousin  in  the  Foreign  Office,  or  an  aunt 
in  the  Intelligence  Department,  from  whom 
he  can  derive  fresh  and  entirely  different 
information  each  week-end  leave. 

Master  Cockerell,  for  instance,  has  it 
straight  from  the  Horse  Guards  that  we 
are  going  out  next  week  —  as  a  single  unit, 
to  be  brigaded  with  two  seasoned  regi- 
ments in  Flanders.  He  has  a  considerable 
following. 

Then  comes  Waddell,  who  has  been  in- 
formed by  the  Assistant  sub-Editor  of  an 


CONCEET   PITCH  165 

evening  journal  widely  read  in  his  native 
Dundee,  that  The  First  Hundred  Thousand 
are  to  sit  here,  eating  the  bread  of  im- 
patience, until  The  First  Half  Million  are 
ready.  Thereupon  we  shall  break  through 
our  foeman's  line  at  a  point  hitherto  un- 
assailed  and  known  only  to  the  scribe  of 
Dundee,  and  proceed  to  roll  up  the  German 
Empire  as  if  it  were  a  carpet,  into  some 
obscure  corner  of  the  continent  of  Europe. 

Bobby  Little,  not  the  least  of  whose  gifts  is 
a  soaring  imagination,  has  mapped  out  a  sort 
of  strategical  Cook's  Tour  for  us,  beginning 
with  the  sack  of  Constantinople,  and  ending, 
after  a  glorified  route-march  up  the  Danube 
and  down  the  Ehine,  which  shall  include  a 
pitched  battle  once  a  week  and  a  successful 
.siege  once  a  month,  with  a  "circus"  entry 
into  Potsdam. 

Captain  Wagstaffe  offers  no  opinion,  but 
darkly  recommends  us  to  order  pith  helmets. 
However,  we  are  rather  suspicious  of  Captain 
Wagstaffe  these  days.  He  suffers  from  an 
over-developed  sense  of  humour. 

The  rank  and  file  keep  closer  to  earth  in 
their  prognostications.  In  fact,  some  of  them 
cleave  to  the  dust.  With  them  it  is  a  case  of 
hope  deferred.  Quite  half  of  them  enlisted 
under  the  firm  belief  that  they  would  forth- 
with be  furnished  with  a  rifle  and  ammunition 
and  despatched  to  a  vague  place  called  "the 
front,"  there  to  take  pot-shots  at  the  Kaiser. 
That  was  in  early  August.  It  is  now  early 


166    THE   FIKST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

April,  and  they  are  still  here,  performing 
monotonous  evolutions  and  chafing  under 
the  bonds  of  discipline.  Small  wonder  that 
they  have  begun  to  doubt,  these  simple 
souls,  if  they  are  ever  going  out  at  all. 
Private  M'Slattery  put  the  general  opinion 
in  a  nutshell. 

"This  regiment,"  he  announced,  "is  no' 
for  the  front  at  all.  We're  jist  tae  bide 
here,  for  tae  be  inspeckit  by  Chinese  Min- 
isters and  other  heathen  bodies ! ' ' 

This  withering  summary  of  the  situation 
was  evoked  by  the  fact  that  we  had  once 
been  called  out,  and  kept  on  parade  for  two 
hours  in  a  north-east  wind,  for  the  edifica- 
tion of  a  bevy  of  spectacled  dignitaries  from 
the  Far  East.  For  the  Scottish  artisan  the 
word  "  minister, "  however,  has  only  one  sig- 
nificance; so  it  is  probable  that  M'Slattery's 
strictures  were  occasioned  by  sectarian,  rather 
than  racial,  prejudice. 

Still,  whatever  our  ultimate  destination 
and  fate  may  be,  the  fact  remains  that  we 
are  now  as  fit  for  active  service  as  seven 
months'  relentless  schooling,  under  mak- 
believe  conditions,  can  render  us.  We  shall 
have  to  begin  all  over  again,  we  know,  when 
we  find  ourselves  up  against  the  real  thing, 
but  we  have  at  least  been  thoroughly 
grounded  in  the  rudiments  of  our  profession. 
We  can  endure  hail,  rain,  snow,  and  vapour; 
we  can  march  and  dig  with  the  best;  we 
have  mastered  the  first  principles  of  mus- 


CONCERT  PITCH  167 

ketry;  we  can  advance  in  an  extended  line 
without  losing  touch  or  bunching;  and  we 
have  ceased  to  regard  an  order  as  an  insult, 
or  obedience  as  a  degradation.  We  eat  when 
we  can  and  what  we  get,  and  we  sleep 
wherever  we  happen  to  find  ourselves  lying. 
That  is  something.  But  there  are  certain 
military  accomplishments  which  can  only  be 
taught  us  by  the  enemy.  Taking  cover,  for 
instance.  When  the  thin,  intermittent 
crackle  of  blank  ammunition  shall  have  been 
replaced  by  the  whistle  of  real  bullets,  we 
shall  get  over  our  predilection  for  sitting 
up  and  taking  notice.  The  conversation  of 
our  neighbour,  or  the  deplorable  antics  of 
B  Company  on  the  neighbouring  skyline, 
will  interest  us  not  at  all.  We  shall  get 
down,  and  stay  down. 

We  shall  also  be  relieved  of  the  necessity 
of  respecting  the  property  of  those  exalted 
persons  who  surround  their  estates  with 
barbed  wire,  and  put  up  notices,  even  now, 
warning  off  troops.  At  present  we  either 
crawl  painfully  through  that  wire,  tearing 
our  kilts  and  lacerating  our  legs,  or  go 
round  another  way.  "Got  there,"  such  un- 
wholesome deference  will  be  a  thing  of  the 
past.  Would  that  the  wire-setters  were 
going  out  with  us.  We  would  give  them 
the  place  of  honour  in  the  forefront  of 
battle! 

We  have  fired  a  second  musketry  course, 
and  are  now  undergoing  Divisional  Training, 


168    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

with  the  result  that  we  take  our  walks 
abroad  several  thousand  strong,  greatly  to 
the  derangement  of  local  traffic. 

Considered  all  round,  Divisional  Train- 
ing is  the  pleas  ante  st  form  of  soldiering  that 
we  have  yet  encountered.  We  parade  bright 
and  early,  at  full  battalion  strength,  accom- 
panied by  our  scouts,  signallers,  machine- 
guns,  and  transport,  and  march  off  at  the 
appointed  minute  to  the  starting-point.  Here 
we  slip  into  our  place  in  an  already  moving 
column,  with  three  thousand  troops  in  front 
of  us  and  another  two  thousand  behind,  and 
tramp  to  our  point  of  deployment.  We  feel 
pleasantly  thrilled.  We  are  no  longer  a 
battalion  out  on  a  route-march:  we  are 
members  of  a  White  Army,  or  a  Brown 
Army,  hastening  to  frustrate  the  designs  of 
a  Blue  Army,  or  a  Pink  Army,  which  has 
landed  (according  to  the  General  Idea  issued 
from  Headquarters)  at  Portsmouth,  and  is 
reported  to  have  slept  at  Great  Snoreham, 
only  ten  miles  away,  last  night. 

Meanwhile  our  Headquarters  Staff  is  en- 
gaged in  the  not  always  easy  task  of  "  getting 
into  touch"  with  the  enemy  —  anglice,  finding 
him.  It  is  extraordinary  how  elusive  a 
force  of  several  thousand  troops  can  be, 
especially  when  you  are  picking  your  way 
across  a  defective  half-inch  map,  and  the 
commanders  of  the  opposing  forces  cherish 
dissimilar  views  as  to  where  the  point  of 
encounter  is  supposed  to  be.  However,  con- 


CONCERT   PITCH  169 

tact  is  at  length  established;  and  if  it  is 
not  time  to  go  home,  we  have  a  battle. 

Various  things  may  now  happen  to  you. 
You  may  find  yourself  detailed  for  the  Firing- 
line.  In  that  case  your  battalion  will  take 
open  order;  and  you  will  advance,  princi- 
pally upon  your  stomach,  over  hill  and  dale 
until  you  encounter  the  enemy,  doing  like- 
wise. Both  sides  then  proceed  to  dis- 
charge blank  ammunition  into  one  another's 
faces  at  a  range,  if  possible,  of  about  five 
yards,  until  the  " cease  fire"  sounds. 

Or  you  may  find  yourself  in  Support.  In 
that  case  you  are  held  back  until  the  battle 
has  progressed  a  stage  or  two,  when  you 
advance  with  fixed  bayonets  to  prod  your 
own  firing  line  into  a  further  display  of 
valour  and  agility. 

Or  you  may  be  detailed  as  Eeserve. 
Membership  of  Brigade  Eeserve  should  be 
avoided.  You  are  liable  to  be  called  upon 
at  any  moment  to  forsake  the  sheltered 
wood  or  lee  of  a  barn  under  which  you  are 
huddling,  and  double  madly  up  a  hill  or 
along  a  side  road,  tripping  heavily  over 
ingenious  entanglements  composed  of  the 
telephone  wires  of  your  own  signallers,  to 
enfilade  some  unwary  detachment  of  the 
enemy  or  repel  a  flank  attack.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  you  are  ordered  to  act  as 
Divisional  Reserve,  you  may  select  the  softest 
spot  on  the  hillside  behind  which  you  are 
sheltering,  get  out  your  haversack  ration, 


170    THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

and  prepare  to  spend  an  extremely  peaceful 
(or  extremely  dull)  day.  Mimic  warfare 
enjoys  one  enormous  advantage  over  the 
genuine  article:  battles  —  provided  you  are 
not  out  for  the  night  —  must  always  end  in 
time  for  the  men  to  get  back  to  their  dinners 
at  five  o'clock.  Under  this  inexorable  law  it 
follows  that,  by  the  time  the  General  has  got 
into  touch  with  the  enemy  and  brought  his 
firing  line,  supports,  and  local  reserves  into 
action,  it  is  time  to  go  home.  So  about 
three  o'clock  the  bugles  sound,  and  the 
combatants,  hot  and  grimy,  fall  back  into 
close  order  at  the  point  of  deployment,  where 
they  are  presently  joined  by  the  Divisional 
Reserve,  blue-faced  and  watery-eyed  with 
cold.  This  done,  principals  and  understudies, 
casting  envious  glances  at  one  another,  form 
one  long  column  of  route  and  set  out  for 
home,  in  charge  of  the  subalterns.  The 
senior  officers  trot  off  to  the  "pow-wow," 
there,  with  the  utmost  humility  and  defer- 
ence, to  extol  their  own  tactical  dispositions, 
belittle  the  achievements  of  the  enemy,  and 
impugn  the  veracity  of  one  another. 

Thus  the  day's  work  ends.  Our  divisional 
column,  with  its  trim,  sturdy,  infantry  bat- 
talions, its  jingling  cavalry  and  artillery,  its 
real  live  staff,  and  its  imposing  transport 
train,  sets  us  thinking,  by  sheer  force  of  con- 
trast, of  that  dim  and  distant  time  seven 
months  ago,  when  we  wrestled  perspiringly 
all  through  long  and  hot  September  days, 


CONCERT   PITCH  171 

on  a  dusty  barrack  square,  with  squad  upon 
squad  of  dazed  and  refractory  barbarians,  who 
only  ceased  shuffling  their  feet  in  order  to  ex- 
pectorate. And  these  are  the  self-same  men! 
Never  was  there  a  more  complete  vindication 
of  the  policy  of  pegging  away. 


n 


So  much  for  the  effect  of  its  training  upon 
the  regiment  as  a  whole.  But  when  you 
come  to  individuals,  certain  of  whom  we  have 
encountered  and  studied  in  this  rambling  nar- 
rative, you  find  it  impossible  to  generalise. 
Your  one  unshakable  conclusion  is  that  it 
takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  type. 

There  are  happy,  careless  souls  like  McLeary 
and  Hogg.  There  are  conscientious  but  slow- 
moving  worthies  like  Mucklewame  and  Budge. 
There  are  drunken  wasters  like- — well,  we 
need  name  no  names.  We  have  got  rid  of 
most  of  these,  thank  heaven!  There  are 
simple-minded  enthusiasts  of  the  breed  of 
Wee  Pe'er,  for  whom  the  sheer  joy  of 
"sojering"  still  invests  dull  routine  and  hard 
work  with  a  glamour  of  their  own.  There 
are  the  old  hands,  versed  in  every  labour- 
saving  (and  duty-shirking)  device.  There 
are  the  feckless  and  muddle-headed,  making 
heavy  weather  of  the  simplest  tasks.  There 
is  another  class,  which  divides  its  time  be- 
tween rising  to  the  position  of  sergeant  and 


m    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

being  reduced  to  the  ranks,  for  causes  which 
need  not  be  specified.  There  is  yet  another, 
which  knows  its  drill-book  backwards,  and 
can  grasp  the  details  of  a  tactical  scheme  as 
quickly  as  a  seasoned  officer,  but  remains  in 
the  ruck  because  it  has  not  sufficient  force  of 
character  to  handle  so  much  as  a  sentry-group. 
There  are  men,  again,  with  initiative  but  no 
endurance,  and  others  with  endurance  but 
no  initiative.  Lastly,  there  are  men,  and  a 
great  many  of  them,  who  appear  to  be  quite 
incapable  of  coherent  thought,  yet  can  handle 
machinery  or  any  mechanical  device  to  a 
marvel.  Yes,  we  are  a  motley  organisation. 

But  the  great  sifting  and  sorting  machine 
into  which  we  have  been  cast  is  shaking  us 
all  out  into  our  appointed  places.  The 
efficient  and  authoritative  rise  to  non-com- 
missioned rank.  The  quick-witted  and  well- 
educated  find  employment  on  the  Orderly 
Boom  staff,  or  among  the  scouts  and 
signallers.  The  handy  are  absorbed  into  the 
transport,  or  become  machine-gunners.  The 
sedentary  take  post  as  cooks,  or  tailors,  or 
officers '  servants.  The  waster  hews  wood  and 
draws  water  and  empties  swill-tubs.  The 
great,  mediocre,  undistinguished  majority 
merely  go  to  stiffen  the  rank  and  file,  and 
right  nobly  they  do  it.  Each  has  his 
niche. 

To  take  a  few  examples,  we  may  begin 
with  a  typical  member  of  the  undistin- 
guished majority.  Such  an  one  is  that 


CONCERT   PITCH  173 

esteemed  citizen  of  Wishaw,  John  Muckle- 
wame.  He  is  a  rank-and-file  man  by  train- 
ing and  instinct,  but  he  forms  a  rare  backbone 
for  K(l).  There  are  others,  of  more  parts  — 
Killick,  for  instance.  Not  long  ago  he  was 
living  softly,  and  driving  a  Eolls-Eoyce  for 
a  Duke.  He  is  now  a  machine-gun  sergeant, 
and  a  very  good  one.  There  is  Dobie.  He 
is  a  good  mechanic,  but  short-legged  and 
shorter-winded.  He  makes  an  excellent 
armourer. 

Then  there  is  Private  Hellish.  In  his 
company  roll  he  is  described  as  "an  actor." 
But  his,  orbit  in  the  theatrical  firmament  has 
never  carried  him  outside  his  native  Dunoon, 
where  he  follows  the  blameless  but  monoton- 
ous calling  of  a  cinematograph  operator.  On 
enlistment  he  invited  the  attention  of  his 
platoon  from  the  start  by  referring  to  his 
rear-rank  man  as  "this  young  gentleman"; 
and  despite  all  the  dissuading  influences  of 
barrack-room  society,  his  manners  never  fell 
below  this  standard.  In  a  company  where 
practically  every  man  is  addressed  either  as 
"Jock"  or  "Jimmy,"  he  created  a  profound 
and  lasting  sensation  one  day,  by  saying  in 
a  winning  voice  to  Private  Ogg,  — 

"Do  not  stand  on  ceremony  with  me,  Mr. 
Ogg.  Call  me  Cyril!" 

For  such  an  exotic  there  could  only  be  one 
destination,  and  in  due  course  Cyril  became 
an  officer's  servant.  He  now  polishes  the 
buttons  and  washes  the  hose-tops  of  Captain 


174    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

Wagstaffe;  and  his  elegant  extracts  amuse 
that  student  of  human  nature  exceedingly. 

Then  comes  a  dour,  silent,  earnest  speci- 
men, whose  name,  incredible  as  it  may 
appear,  is  M*  Ostrich.  He  keeps  himself  to 
himself.  He  never  smiles.  He  is  not  an 
old  soldier,  yet  he  performed  like  a  veteran 
the  very  first  day  he  appeared  on  parade.  He 
carries  out  all  orders  with  solemn  thorough- 
ness. He  does  not  drink;  he  does  not  swear. 
His  nearest  approach  to  animation  comes  at 
church,  where  he  sings  the  hymns  —  especially 
0  God,  our  help  in  ages  past!  —  as  if  he  were 
author  and  composer  combined.  His  harsh, 
rasping  accent  is  certainly  not  that  of  a 
Highlander,  nor  does  it  smack  altogether  of 
the  Clydeside.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  is 
not  a  Scotsman  at  all,  though  five  out  of 
six  of  us  would  put  him  down  as  such.  Alto- 
gether he  is  a  man  of  mystery;  but  the 
regiment  could  do  with  many  more  such. 

Once,  and  only  once,  did  he  give  us  a  peep 
behind  the  scenes.  Private  Burke,  of  D 
Company,  a  cheery  soul,  who  possesses  the 
entirely  Hibernian  faculty  of  being  able  to 
combine  a  most  fanatical  and  seditious  brand 
of  Nationalism  with  a  genuine  and  ardent 
enthusiasm  for  the  British  Empire,  one  day 
made  a  contemptuous  and  ribald  reference 
to  the  Ulster  Volunteers  and  their  leader. 
M'  Ostrich,  who  was  sitting  on  his  bedding  at 
the  other  side  of  the  hut,  promptly  rose  to 
his  feet,  crossed  the  floor  in  three  strides,  and 


CONCERT   PITCH  175 

silently  felled  the  humorist  to  the  earth. 
Plainly,  if  M'  Ostrich  comes  safe  through  the 
war,  he  is  prepared  for  another  and  grimmer 
campaign. 

Lastly,  that  jack-of-all  trades  and  master 
of  none,  Private  Dunshie.  As  already  re- 
corded, Dunshie's  original  calling  had  been 
that  of  a  street  news-vendor.  Like  all 
literary  men,  he  was  a  Bohemian  at  heart. 
Eoutine  wearied  him;  discipline  galled  him; 
the  sight  of  work  made  him  feel  faint.  After 
a  month  or  two  in  the  ranks  he  seized  the 
first  opportunity  of  escaping  from  the  toils 
of  his  company,  by  volunteering  for  service  as 
a  Scout.  A  single  experience  of  night  opera- 
tions in  a  dark  wood,  previously  described, 
decided  him  to  seek  some  milder  employment. 
Observing  that  the  regimental  cooks  appeared 
to  be  absolved,  by  virtue  of  their  office,  not 
only  from  all  regimental  parades,  but  from  all 
obligations  on  the  subject  of  correct  attire 
and  personal  cleanliness,  he  volunteered  for 
service  in  the  kitchen.  Here  for  a  space  — 
clad  in  shirt,  trousers,  and  canvas  shoes,  un- 
utterably greasy  and  waxing  fat  —  he  pros- 
pered exceedingly.  But  one  sad  day  he  was 
detected  by  the  cook-sergeant,  having  just 
finished  cleaning  a  flue,  in  the  act  of  washing 
his  hands  in  ten  gallons  of  B  Company's  soup. 
Once  more  our  versatile  hero  found  himself 
turned  adrift  with  brutal  and  agonising  sud- 
denness, and  bidden  to  exercise  his  talents 
elsewhere. 


176    THE    FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

After  a  fortnight's  uneventful  dreariness 
with  Ms  platoon,  Dunshie  joined  the  machine- 
Banners,  because  he  had  heard  rumours  that 
these  were  conveyed  to  and  from  their  labours 
in  limbered  waggons.  But  he  had  been  mis- 
informed. It  was  the  guns  that  were  carried ; 
the  gunners  invariably  walked,  sometimes 
carrying  the  guns  and  the  appurtenances 
thereof.  His  very  first  day  Dunshie  was 
compelled  to  double  across  half  a  mile  of 
boggy  heathland  carrying  two  large  stones, 
meant  to  represent  ammunition-boxes,  from 
an  imaginary  waggon  to  a  dummy  gun.  It  is 
true  that  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the 
corporal  he  deposited  the  stones  upon  the 
ground,  and  ultimately  proffered  two  others, 
picked  up  on  nearing  his  destination,  to  the 
sergeant  in  charge  of  the  proceedings;  but 
even  thus  the  work  struck  him  as  unreason- 
ably exacting,  and  he  resigned,  by  the  simple 
process  of  cutting  his  next  parade  and  being 
ignominiously  returned  to  his  company. 

After  an  unsuccessful  application  for  em- 
ployment as  a  "buzzer,"  or  signaller,  Dunshie 
made  trial  of  the  regimental  transport,  where 
there  was  a  shortage  of  drivers.  He  had 
strong  hopes  that  in  this  way  he  would  attain 
to  permanent  carriage  exercise.  But  he  was 
quickly  undeceived.  Instead  of  being  offered 
a  seat  upon  the  box  of  a  G.S.  waggon,  he  was 
bidden  to  walk  behind  the  same,  applying 
the  brake  when  necessary,  for  fourteen  miles. 
The  next  day  he  spent  cleaning  stables, 


CONCERT    PITCH  177 

under  a  particularly  officious  corporal.  On 
the  third,  he  was  instructed  in  the  art  of 
grooming  a  mule.  On  the  fourth,  he  was  left 
to  perform  this  feat  unaided,  and  the  mule, 
acting  under  extreme  provocation,  kicked  him 
in  the  stomach.  On  the  fifth  day  he  was  re- 
turned to  his  company. 

But  Mecca  was  at  hand.  That  very  morn- 
ing Dunshie's  company  commander  received 
the  following  ukase  from  headquarters:  — 

Officers  commanding  Companies  will  render 
to  the  Orderly  Room  without  fail,  ~by  9  A.M. 
to-morrow,  the  name  of  one  man  qualified  to 
act  as  chiropodist  to  the  Company. 

Major  Kemp  scratched  his  nose  in  a  dazed 
fashion,  and  looked  over  his  spectacles  at  his 
Quartermaster-Sergeant. 

1 ' What  in  thunder  will  they  ask  for  next?'* 
he  growled.  "Have  we  got  any  tame  chiro- 
podists in  the  company,  Bae?" 

Quartermaster-Sergeant  Eae  turned  over 
the  Company  roll. 

"There  is  no  —  no  —  no  man  of  that  pro- 
fession here,  sirr, ' '  he  reported,  after  scanning 
the  document.  "But,"  he  added  optimistic- 
ally, "there  is  a  machine-fitter  and  a  glass- 
blower.  Will  I  warn  one  of  them?" 

"I  think  we  had  better  call  for  a  volunteer 
first,"  said  Major  Kemp  tactfully. 

Accordingly,  that  afternoon  upon  parade, 
platoon  commanders  were  bidden  to  hold  a 


178    THE   FIKST   HTJJSTDKED   THOUSAND 

witch  hunt,  and  smell  out  a  chiropodist.  But 
the  enterprise  terminated  almost  immediately ; 
for  Private  Dunshie,  caressing  his  injured 
abdomen  in  Number  Three  Platoon,  heard  the 
invitation,  and  quickly  stepped  forward. 

"So  you  are  a  chiropodist  as  well  as 
everything  else,  Dunshie!"  said  Ay  ling 
incredulously. 

"That's  right,  sirr,"  assented  Dunshie 
politely. 

"Are  you  a  professional?" 

"No  exactly  that,  sirr,"  was  the  modest 
reply. 

"You  just  make  a  hobby  of  it?" 

"Just  that,  sirr." 

"Have  you  had  much  experience?" 

"No  that  much." 

"But  you  feel  capable  of  taking  on  the 
job?" 

"I  do,  sirr." 

"You  seem  quite  eager  about  it." 

"Yes,  sirr,"  said  Dunshie,  with  gusto. 

A  sudden  thought  occurred  to  Ayling. 

"Do  you  know  what  a  chiropodist  is?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  sirr,"  replied  Dunshie,  with  unabated 
aplomb. 

To  do  him  justice,  the  revelation  of  the 
nature  of  his  prospective  labours  made  no 
difference  whatever  to  Dunshie  ?s  willingness 
to  undertake  them.  Now,  upon  Saturday 
mornings,  when  men  stand  stiffly  at  attention 


CONCERT   PITCH  179 

beside  their  beds  to  have  their  feet  inspected, 
you  may  behold,  sweeping  majestically  in  the 
wake  of  the  Medical  Officer  as  he  makes  his 
rounds,  the  swelling  figure  of  Private  Dunshie, 
carrying  the  implements  of  his  gruesome 
trade.  He  has  found  his  vocation  at  last, 
and  his  bearing  in  consequence  is  something 
between  that  of  a  Court  Physician  and  a  Staff 
Officer. 


m 


So  much  for  the  rank  and  file.  Of  the 
officers  we  need  only  say  that  the  old  hands 
have  been  a  godsend  to  our  young  regiment; 
while  the  juniors,  to  quote  their  own  Colonel, 
have  learned  as  much  in  six  months  as  the 
average  subaltern  learns  in  three  years;  and 
whereas  in  the  old  days  a  young  officer  could 
always  depend  on  his  platoon  sergeant  to 
give  him  the  right  word  of  command  or 
instruct  him  in  company  routine,  the  posi- 
tions are  now  in  many  cases  reversed.  But 
that  by  the  way.  The  outstanding  feature 
of  the  relationship  between  officers  and  men 
during  all  this  long,  laborious,  sometimes 
heart-breaking  winter  has  been  this  —  that, 
despite  the  rawness  of  our  material  and  the 
novelty  of  our  surroundings,  in  the  face  of 
difficulties  which  are  now  happily  growing 
dim  in  our  memory,  the  various  ranks  have 
never  quite  given  up  trying,  never  altogether 
lost  faith,  never  entirely  forgotten  the  Cause 


180    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

which  has  brought  us  together.  And  the 
result  —  the  joint  result  —  of  it  all  is  a  real 
live  regiment,  with  a  morale  and  soul  of 
its  own. 

But  so  far  everything  has  been  purely 
suppositious.  We  have  no  knowledge  as  to 
what  our  real  strength  or  weakness  may  be. 
We  have  run  our  trial  trips  over  a  landlocked 
stretch  of  smooth  water.  To-morrow,  when 
we  steam  out  to  face  the  tempest  which  is 
shaking  the  foundations  of  the  world,  we  shall 
see  what  we  shall  see.  Some  of  us,  who  at 
present  are  exalted  for  our  smartness  and 
efficiency,  will  indubitably  be  found  wanting 
—  wanting  in  stamina  of  body  or  soul  —  while 
others,  hitherto  undistinguished,  will  come  to 
their  own.  Only  War  itself  can  discover  the 
qualities  which  count  in  War.  But  we 
silently  pray,  in  our  dour  and  inarticulate 
hearts,  that  the  supreme  British  virtue  —  the 
virtue  of  holding  on,  and  holding  on,  and 
holding  on,  until  our  end  is  accomplished  — 
may  not  be  found  wanting  in  a  single  one 
of  us. 

To  take  a  last  survey  of  the  regiment 
which  we  have  created  —  one  little  drop  in 
the  incredible  wave  which  has  rolled  with 
gathering  strength  from  end  to  end  of  this 
island  of  ours  during  the  past  six  months, 
and  now  hangs  ready  to  crash  upon  the  gates 
of  our  enemies  —  what  manner  of  man  has  it 
produced?  What  is  he  like,  this  impromptu 
Thomas  Atkins  I 


CONCERT   PITCH  181 

Well,  when  he  joined,  his  outstanding  fea- 
ture was  a  sort  of  surly  independence,  the 
surliness  being  largely  based  upon  the  fear 
of  losing  the  independence.  He  has  got  over 
that  now.  He  is  no  longer  morbidly  sensitive 
about  his  rights  as  a  free  and  independent 
citizen  and  the  backbone  of  the  British  elec- 
torate. He  has  bigger  things  to  think  of. 
He  no  longer  regards  sergeants  as  upstart 
slave-drivers  —  frequently  he  is  a  sergeant 
himself  —  nor  officers  as  grinding  capitalists. 
He  is  undergoing  the  experience  of  the  rivets 
in  Mr.  Kipling's  story  of  "The  Ship  that 
Found  Herself."  He  is  adjusting  his  per- 
spectives. He  is  beginning  to  merge  himself 
in  the  Regiment. 

He  no  longer  gets  drunk  from  habit.  When 
he  does  so  now,  it  is  because  there  were  no 
potatoes  at  dinner,  or  because  there  has  been 
a  leak  in  the  roof  of  his  hut  for  a  week  and 
no  one  is  attending  to  it,  or  because  his  wife 
is  not  receiving  her  separation  allowance. 
Being  an  inarticulate  person,  he  finds  getting 
drunk  the  simplest  and  most  effective  ex- 
pedient for  acquainting  the  powers  that  be 
with  the  fact  that  he  has  a  grievance.  For- 
merly, the  morning  list  of  "drunks"  merely 
reflected  the  nearness  or  remoteness  of  pay- 
day. Now,  it  is  a  most  reliable  and  invalu- 
able barometer  of  the  regimental  atmosphere. 

He  has  developed  —  quite  spontaneously, 
for  he  has  had  few  opportunities  for  imitation 
—  many  of  the  characteristics  of  the  regular 


182    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

soldier.  He  is  quick  to  discover  himself 
aggrieved,  but  is  readily  appeased  if  lie  feels 
that  his  officer  is  really  doing  his  best  for 
him,  and  that  both  of  them  are  the  victims 
of  a  higher  power.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
is  often  amazingly  cheerful  under  uncomfort- 
able and  depressing  surroundings.  He  is 
growing  quite  fastidious,  too,  about  his  per- 
sonal appearance  when  off  duty.  (You  should 
see  our  quiffs  on  Saturdays!)  He  is  quite 
incapable  of  keeping  possession  of  his  clothing, 
his  boots,  his  rifle,  his  health,  or  anything 
that  is  his,  without  constant  supervision  and 
nurse-maiding.  And  that  he  is  developing  a 
strong  bent  towards  the  sentimental  is  evinced 
by  the  choruses  that  he  sings  in  the  gloaming 
and  his  taste  in  picture  post-cards. 

So  far  he  may  follow  the  professional  model, 
but  in  other  respects  he  is  quite  sui  generis. 
No  sergeant  in  a  Highland  regiment  of  the 
line  would  ever  refer  to  a  Cockney  private, 
with  all  humility,  as  "a  young  English 
gentleman";  neither  would  an  ordinary  sol- 
dier salute  an  officer  quite  correctly  with  one 
hand  while  employing  the  other  to  light  his 
pipe.  In  "K(l)"  we  do  these  things  and 
many  others,  which  give  us  a  cachet  of  our 
own  of  which  we  are  very  rightly  and  properly 
proud. 

So  we  pin  our  faith  to  the  man  who  has 
been  at  once  our  despair  and  our  joy  since 
the  month  of  August.  He  has  character;  he 
has  grit ;  and  now  that  he  is  getting  discipline 


CONCEET   PITCH  183 

as  well,  lie  is  going  to  be  an  everlasting  credit 
to  the  cause  which  roused  his  manhood  and 
the  land  which  gave  him  birth. 

That  is  the  tale  of  The  First  Hundred 
Thousand  — Part  One.  Whether  Part  Two 
will  be  forthcoming,  and  how  much  of  it  there 
will  be,  depends  upon  two  things  —  the  course 
of  history,  and  the  present  historian's  eye 
for  cover. 


BOOK  TWO 
LIVE   ROUNDS 


XIV 

THE   BACK   OF   THE   FRONT 


THE  last  few  days  have  afforded  us  an  excel- 
lent opportunity  of  studying  the  habits  of 
that  ubiquitous  attendant  of  our  movements, 
the  Staff  Officer. 

He  is  not  always  a  real  Staff  Officer  —  the 
kind  that  wears  a  red  hatband.  Sometimes 
he  is  an  obvious  " dug-out,"  with  a  pronounced 
embonpoint  or  a  game  leg.  Sometimes  he  is 
a  mere  stripling,  with  a  rapidly  increasing  size 
in  hats.  Sometimes  he  is  an  ordinary  human 
being.  But  whoever  he  is,  and  whatever  his 
age  or  rank,  one  thing  is  certain.  He  has  no 
mean:  he  is  either  very  good  or  very  bad. 
When  he  is  good  he  is  very  good  indeed,  and 
when  he  is  bad  he  is  horrid.  He  is  either 
Jekyll  or  Hyde. 

Thrice  blessed,  then,  is  that  unit  which, 
upon  its  journey  to  the  seat  of  war,  encoun- 
ters only  the  good  of  the  species.  To  transfer 
a  thousand  men,  with  secrecy  and  despatch, 


188    THE   FIBST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

from  camp  to  train,  from  train  to  ship,  from 
ship  to  train,  and  from  train  to  a  spot  near 
the  battle  line,  is  a  task  which  calls  for  the 
finest  organisation  and  the  most  skilful  ad- 
ministration. Let  it  be  said  at  once  that  our 
path  to  our  present  address  has  been  almost 
universally  lined  with  Jekylls.  The  few 
Hydes  whom  we  have  encountered  are  by 
this  time  merely  a  subject  for  amusing 
anecdote. 

As  for  the  organisation  of  our  journey—- 
well,  it  was  formulated  upon  Olympus,  and 
was  marked  by  those  Olympian  touches  of 
which  mention  has  been  previously  made. 
For  instance,  immense  pains  were  taken,  by 
means  of  printed  rules  and  official  memoranda, 
to  acquaint  us  with  the  procedure  to  be  fol- 
lowed at  each  point  of  entrainment  or  em- 
barkation. Consequently  we  set  out  upon 
our  complicated  pilgrimage  primed  with 
explicit  instructions  and  ready  for  any 
emergency.  We  filled  up  forms  with  count- 
less details  of  our  equipment  and  personnel, 
which  we  knew  would  delight  the  heart  of 
the  Bound  Game  Department.  We  divided 
our  followers,  as  directed,  into  Loading 
Parties,  and  Eation  Parties,  and  Hold 
Parties,  and  many  other  interesting  sub- 
divisions, as  required  by  the  rules  of  the 
game.  But  we  had  reckoned  without  the 
Practical  Joke  Department.  The  Bound 
Game  Department  having  furnished  us  with 
one  set  of  rules,  the  Practical  Joke  Depart- 


THE  BACK  OF  THE  FEONT    189 

ment  prepared  another,  entirely  different,  and 
issued  them  to  the  officers  who  superin- 
tended such  things  as  entrainment  and 
embarkation.  At  least,  that  is  the  most 
charitable  explanation  of  the  course  of  action 
adopted  by  the  few  Mr.  Hydes  whom  we 
encountered. 

Two  of  these  humorists  linger  in  the  mem- 
ory. The  first  was  of  the  type  which  is  ad- 
miringly referred  to  in  commercial  circles 
as  a  hustler.  His  hustling  took  the  form  of 
beginning  to  shout  incomprehensible  orders 
almost  before  the  train  had  drawn  up  at  the 
platform.  After  that  he  passed  from  party 
to  party,  each  of  which  was  working  strenu- 
ously under  its  own  sergeant,  and  commanded 
them  (not  the  sergeant)  to  do  something  else, 
somewhere  else  —  a  course  of  action  naturally 
calculated  to  promote  unity  and  celerity  of 
action  all  round.  A  perspiring  sergeant  who 
ventured  to  point  out  that  his  party  were 
working  under  the  direct  orders  of  their  Com- 
pany Commander,  was  promptly  placed  under 
arrest,  and  his  flock  enjoyed  a  welcome  and 
protracted  breathing-space  until  an  officer  of 
sufficient  standing  to  cope  with  Mr.  Hyde  — 
unfortunately  he  was  Major  Hyde  —  could  be 
discovered  and  informed. 

The  second  required  more  tactful  handling. 
As  our  train-load  drew  up  at  the  platform, 
the  officer  in  charge  —  it  was  Captain  Blaikie, 
supported  by  Bobby  Little  —  stepped  out, 
saluted  the  somewhat  rotund  Colonel  Hyde 


190    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

whom  he  saw  before  him,  and  proffered  a 
sheaf  of  papers. 

"Good-morning,  sir,"  he  said.  "Here  is 
my  train  statement.  Shall  I  carry  on  with 
the  unloading?  I  have  all  my  parties 
detailed." 

The  great  man  waved  away  the  papers 
magnificently.  (To  be  just,  even  the  Jekylls 
used  to  wave  away  our  papers.) 

"Take  those  things  away,"  he  commanded, 
in  a  voice  which  made  it  plain  that  we  had 
encountered  another  hustler.  "Burn  them, 
if  you  like!  Now  listen  to  me.  Tell  off  an 
officer  and  seventy  men  at  once." 

"I  have  all  the  necessary  parties  detailed 
already,  sir." 

"Will  you  listen  to  me?"  roared  the 
Colonel.  He  turned  to  where  Captain 
Blaikie 's  detachment  were  drawn  up  on  the 
platform.  "Take  the  first  seventy  men  of 
that  lot,  and  tell  them  to  stand  over  there, 
under  an  officer." 

Captain  Blaikie  gave  the  necessary  order. 

"Now,"  continued  Colonel  Hyde,  "tell 
them  to  get  the  horses  out  and  on  board  that 
steamer  at  once.  The  rest  of  your  party  are 
to  go  by  another  steamer.  See?" 

6  <  Yes,  sir,  perfectly.    But ' ' 

"Do  you  understand  my  order?"  thundered 
the  Colonel,  with  increasing  choler. 

"I  do,  sir,"  replied  Blaikie  politely, 
"but " 

"Then,  for  heaven's  sake,  carry  on!" 


THE  BACK  OF  THE  FRONT    191 

Blaikie  saluted. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  he  answered.  "Mr. 
Little,  come  with  me." 

He  turned  upon  his  heel  and  disappeared 
rapidly  round  a  corner,  followed  by  the  mys- 
tified Bobby. 

Once  out  of  4he  sight  of  the  Colonel,  Cap- 
tain Blaikie  halted,  leaned  against  a  con- 
venient pillar,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he 
inquired. 

Bobby  told  him. 

"Quite  so,"  agreed  Blaikie.  "But  what 
you  say  v  helps  nobody,  though  doubtless 
soothing  to  the  feelings.  Now  listen,  Bobby, 
and  I  will  give  you  your  first  lesson  in  the 
Tactical  Handling  of  Brass  Hats.  Of  course 
we  might  do  as  that  dear  old  gentleman  sug- 
gests, and  send  seventy  horses  and  mules  on 
a  sea  voyage  in  charge  of  a  party  of  cooks, 
signallers,  and  machine-gunners,  and  let  the 
grooms  and  drivers  go  with  the  bicycles  and 
machine-guns  and  field  kitchens.  But  I  don't 
think  we  will.  Nobody  would  enjoy  the  ex- 
periment much  —  except  perhaps  the  mules. 
No :  we  will  follow  the  golden  rule,  which  is : 
When  given  an  impossible  job  by  a  Brass 
Hat,  salute  smartly,  turn  about,  and  go  and 
wait  round  a  corner  for  five  minutes.  Then 
come  back  and  do  the  job  in  a  proper  manner. 
Our  five  minutes  are  up :  the  coast  should  be 
clear.  Come  along,  Bobby,  and  help  me  to 
exchange  those  two  parties." 


192    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

But  we  encountered  surprisingly  few  Hydes. 
Nearly  all  were  Jekylls  —  Jekylls  of  the  most 
competent  and  courteous  type.  True,  they 
were  inclined  to  treat  our  laboriously  com- 
pleted returns  with  frivolity. 

" Never  mind  those  things,  old  man,"  they 
would  say.  "Just  tell  me  who  you  are,  and 
how  many.  That's  right:  now  I  know  all 
about  you.  Got  your  working  parties  fixed 
up?  Good!  They  ought  to  have  everything 
cleared  in  a  couple  of  hours.  I'll  see  that  a 
ration  of  hot  tea  is  served  out  for  them. 
Your  train  starts  at  a  quarter  past  seven 
this  evening  —  remember  to  call  it  nineteen- 
fifteen,  by  the  way,  in  this  country  —  and 
you  ought  to  be  at  the  station  an  hour 
before  the  time.  I'll  send  you  a  guide. 
What  a  fine-looking  lot  these  chaps  of  yours 
are!  Best  lot  I've  seen  here  for  a  very  long 
time.  Working  like  niggers,  too !  Now  come 
along  with  me  for  ten  minutes  and  I'll  show 
you  where  to  get  a  bite  of  breakfast.  Expect 
you  can  do  with  a  bit I" 

That  is  Brass-Hat  Jekyll  —  officer  and 
gentleman;  and,  to  the  eternal  credit  of  the 
British  Army,  be  it  said  that  he  abounds  in 
this  well-conducted  campaign.  As  an  in- 
stance of  his  efficiency,  let  the  case  of  our 
own  regiment  be  quoted.  The  main  body 
travelled  here  by  one  route,  the  transport, 
horses,  and  other  details  by  another.  The 
main  body  duly  landed,  and  were  conveyed  to 
the  rendezvous  —  a  distant  railway  junction  in 


THE  BACK  OP  THE  FKONT    193 

Northern  France.  There  they  sat  down  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  train  containing  the 
other  party;  which  had  left  England  many 
hours  before  them,  had  landed  at  a  different 
port,  and  had  not  been  seen  or  heard  of  since. 

They  had  to  wait  exactly  ten  minutes ! 

"Some  Staff  —  what 1"  as  the  Adjutant  ob- 
served, as  the  train  lumbered  into  view. 


Most  of  us,  in  our  travels  abroad,  have 
observed  the  closed  trucks  which  are  employed 
upon  French  railways,  and  which  bear  the 
legend  — 

Hommes    .        -.        .        .      40 
Chevaux    ....        8 

Doubtless  we  have  wondered,  idly  enough, 
what  it  must  feel  like  to  be  one  of  the  forty 
hommes.  Well,  now  we  know. 

When  we  landed,  we  were  packed  into  a 
train  composed  of  fifty  such  trucks,  and  were 
drawn  by  a  mighty  engine  for  a  day  and  a 
night  across  the  pleasant  land  of  France. 
Every  six  hours  or  so  we  were  indulged 
with  a  Halte  Repas.  That  is  to  say,  the  train 
drew  up  in  a  siding,  where  an  officer  with 
E.T.O.  upon  his  arm  made  us  welcome,  and 
informed  us  that  hot  water  was  available  for 
making  tea.  Everybody  had  two  days'  ra- 
tions in  his  haversack,  so  a  large-scale  picnic 


194    THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

followed.  From  the  horse-trucks  emerged 
stolid  individuals  with  canvas  buckets  —  you 
require  to  be  fairly  stolid  to  pass  the  night  in 
a  closed  box,  moving  at  twenty  miles  an  hour, 
in  company  with  eight  riotous  and  insecurely 
tethered  mules  —  to  draw  water  from  the 
hydrant  which  supplied  the  locomotives. 
The  infant  population  gathered  round,  and 
besought  us  for  " souvenirs,"  the  most  popu- 
lar taking  the  form  of  "biskeet"  or  "bully- 
boauf . ' '  Both  were  given  freely :  with  but  little 
persuasion  our  open-handed  warriors  would 
have  fain  squandered  their  sacred  "emer- 
gency ration"  upon  these  rapacious  infants. 

After  refreshment  we  proceeded  to  inspect 
the  station.  The  centre  of  attraction  -was 
the  French  soldier  on  guard  over  the  water- 
tank.  Behold  this  same  sentry  confronted 
by  Private  Mucklewame,  anxious  to  comply 
with  Divisional  Orders  and  "lose  no  oppor- 
tunity of  cultivating  the  friendliest  relations 
with  those  of  our  Allies  whom  you  may 
chance  to  encounter."  So  Mucklewame  and 
the  sentry  (who  is  evidently  burdened  with 
similar  instructions)  regard  one  another  with 
shy  smiles,  after  the  fashion  of  two  children 
who  have  been  introduced  by  their  nurses  at 
a  party. 

Presently  the  sentry,  by  a  happy  inspira- 
tion, proffers  his  bayonet  for  inspection,  as 
it  were  a  new  doll.  Mucklewame  bows 
solemnly,  and  fingers  the  blade.  Then  he 
produces  his  own  bayonet,  and  the  two 


THE  BACK  OF  THE  FRONT    195 

weapons  are  compared  —  still  in  constrained 
silence.  Then  Mncklewame  nods  approvingly. 

"Verra  goody I"  he  remarks,  profoundly 
convinced  that  he  is  speaking  the  French 
language. 

"Olrigh!  Tipperaree!"  replies  the  sentry, 
not  to  be  outdone  in  international  courtesy. 

Unfortunately,  the  further  cementing  of 
the  Entente  Cordiale  is  frustrated  by  the 
blast  of  a  whistle.  We  hurl  ourselves  into 
our  trucks;  the  R.T.O.  waves  his  hand  in 
benediction;  and  the  regiment  proceeds  upon 
its  way,  packed  like  herrings,  but  "all  jubi- 
lant with  song." 


in 


We  have  been  "oot  here"  for  a  week 
now,  and  although  we  have  had  no  personal 
encounter  with  the  foe,  our  time  has  not 
been  wasted.  We  are  filling  up  gaps  in  our 
education,  and  we  are  tolerably  busy.  Some 
things,  of  course,  we  have  not  had  to  learn. 
We  are  fairly  well  inured,  for  instance,  to 
hard  work  and  irregular  meals.  What  we 
have  chiefly  to  acquire  at  present  is  the 
art  of  adaptability.  When  we  are  able  to 
settle  down  into  strange  billets  in  half  an 
hour,  and  pack  up,  ready  for  departure, 
within  the  same  period,  we  shall  have  made 
a  great  stride  in  efficiency,  and  added  enor- 
mously to  our  own  personal  comfort. 

Even     now     we     are     making     progress. 


196    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Observe  the  platoon  who  are  marching  into 
this  farmyard.  They  are  dead  tired,  and 
the  sight  of  the  straw-filled  barn  is  too 
much  for  some  of  them.  They  throw  them- 
selves down  anywhere,  and  are  asleep  in 
a  moment.  When  they  wake  up  —  or  more 
likely,  are  wakened  up  —  in  an  hour  or 
two,  they  will  be  sorry.  They  will  be 
stiff  and  sore,  and  their  feet  will  be  a  tor- 
ment. Others,  more  sensible,  crowd  round 
the  pump,  or  dabble  their  abraded  extremi- 
ties in  one  of  the  countless  ditches  with 
which  this  country  is  intersected.  Others 
again,  of  the  more  enterprising  kind,  repair 
to  the  house-door,  and  inquire  politely  for 
"the  wife."  (They  have  long  given  up  in- 
quiring for  * '  the  master. ' '  There  is  no  master 
on  this  farm,  or  indeed  on  any  farm  through- 
out the  length  and  breadth  of  this  great- 
hearted land.  Father  and  sons  are  all  away, 
restoring  the  Bosche  to  his  proper  place  in  * 
the  animal  kingdom.  We  have  seen  no 
young  or  middle-aged  man  out  of  uniform 
since  we  entered  this  district,  save  an  occa- 
sional imbecile  or  cripple.) 

Presently  "the  wife"  comes  to  the  door, 
with  a  smile.  She  can  afford  to  smile  now,  for 
not  so  long  ago  her  guests  were  Uhlans.  Then 
begins  an  elaborate  pantomime.  Private 
Tosh  says  "Bonjourr!"  in  husky  tones  —  last 
week  he  would  have  said  "Hey,  Bella!"  — 
and  proceeds  to  wash  his  hands  in  invisible 
soap  and  water.  As  a  reward  for  his  in- 


THE  BACK  OF  THE  FRONT    197 

geimity  he  receives  a  basin  of  water:  some- 
times the  water  is  even  warm.  Meanwhile 
Private  Cosh,  the  linguist  of  the  platoon, 
proffers  twopence,  and  says:  "Doolay —  ye 
unnerstand?"  He  gets  a  drink  of  milk, 
which  is  a  far,  far  better  thing  than  the 
appalling  green  scum-covered  water  with 
which  his  less  adaptable  brethren  are  wont 
to  refresh  themselves  from  wayside  ditches. 
Thomas  Atkins,  however  mature,  is  quite  in- 
corrigible in  this  respect. 

Yes,  we  are  getting  on.  And  when  every 
man  in  the  platoon,  instead  of  merely  some, 
can  find  a  place  to  sleep,  draw  his  blanket 
from  the  waggon,  clean  his  rifle  and  himself, 
and  get  to  his  dinner  within  the  half-hour 
already  specified,  we  shall  be  able  justly  to 
call  ourselves  seasoned. 

We  have  covered  some  distance  this  week, 
rand  we  have  learned  one  thing  at  least, 
and  that  is,  not  to  be  uppish  about  our  sleep- 
ing quarters.  We  have  slept  in  chateaux, 
convents,  farm-houses,  and  under  the  open 
sky.  The  chateaux  are  usually  empty.  An 
aged  retainer,  the  sole  inhabitant,  explains 
that  M.  le  Comte  is  at  Paris ;  M.  Armand  at 
Arras ;  and  M.  Guy  in  Alsace,  —  all  doing  their 
bit.  M.  Victor  is  in  hospital,  with  Madame 
and  Mademoiselle  in  constant  attendance. 

So  we  settle  down  in  the  chateaux,  and 
unroll  our  sleeping-bags  upon  its  dusty  par- 
quet. Occasionally  we  find  a  bed  available. 
Then  two  officers  take  the  mattress,  upon 


198    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

the  floor,  and  two  more  take  what  is  left  of 
the  bed.  French  chateaux  do  not  appear  to 
differ  much  as  a  class.  They  are  distin- 
guished by  great  elegance  of  design,  infinite 
variety  in  furniture,  and  entire  absence  of 
drains.  The  same  rule  applies  to  convents, 
except  that  there  is  no  furniture. 

Given  fine  weather,  by  far  the  most  luxuri- 
ous form  of  lodging  is  in  the  open  air.  Here 
one  may  slumber  at  ease,  fanned  by  the 
wings  of  cockchafers  and  soothed  by  an  un- 
seen choir  of  frogs.  There  are  drawbacks, 
of  course.  Mr.  Waddell  one  evening  spread 
his  ground-sheet  and  bedding  in  the  grassy 
meadow,  beside  a  murmuring  stream.  It  was 
an  idyllic  resting-place  for  a  person  of 
romantic  or  contemplative  disposition.  Un- 
fortunately it  is  almost  impossible  nowadays 
to  keep  one's  favourite  haunts  select.  This 
was  evidently  the  opinion  of  the  large  water- 
rat  which  Waddell  found  sitting  upon  his 
air-pillow  when  he  returned  from  supper. 
Although  French,  the  animal  exhibited  no 
disposition  to  fraternise,  but  withdrew  in 
the  most  pointed  fashion,  taking  an  Aber- 
nethy  biscuit  with  him. 

Accommodation  in  farms  is  best  described 
by  the  word  "  promiscuous. "  There  are 
twelve  officers  and  two  hundred  men  billeted 
here.  The  farm  is  exactly  the  same  as  any 
other  French  farm.  It  consists  of  a  hollow 
square  of  buildings  —  dwelling-house,  barns, 
pigstyes,  and  stables  —  with  a  commodious 


THE  BACK  OF  THE  FKONT    199 

manure-heap,  occupying  the  whole  yard  ex- 
cept a  narrow  strip  round  the  edge,  in  the 
middle,  the  happy  hunting-ground  of  innumer- 
able cocks  and  hens  and  an  occasional  pig. 
The  men  sleep  in  the  barns.  The  senior  offi- 
cers sleep  in  a  stone-floored  boudoir  of  their 
own.  The  juniors  sleep  where  they  can,  and 
experience  little  difficulty  in  accomplishing 
the  feat.  A  hard  day's  marching  and  a  truss 
of  straw  —  these  two  combined  form  an  irre- 
sistible inducement  to  slumber. 

Only  a  few  miles  away  big  guns  thunder 
until  the  building  shakes.  To-morrow  a  select 
party  of  officers  is  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
trenches.  Thereafter  our  whole  flock  is  to  go, 
in  its  official  capacity.  The  War  is  with  us  at 
last.  Early  this  morning  a  Zeppelin  rose  into 
view  on  the  skyline.  Shell  fire  pursued  it,  and 
it  sank  again  —  rumour  says  in  the  British 
lines.  Eumour  is  our  only  war  correspondent 
at  present.  It  is  far  easier  to  follow  the  course 
of  events  from  home,  where  newspapers  are 
more  plentiful  than  here. 

But  the  grim  realities  of  war  are  coming 
home  to  us.  Outside  this  farm  stands  a  tall 
tree.  Not  many  months  ago  a  party  of 
Uhlans  arrived  here,  bringing  with  them  a 
wounded  British  prisoner.  They  crucified  him 
to  that  self-same  tree,  and  stood  round  him 
till  he  died.  He  was  a  long  time  dying. 

Some  of  us  had  not  heard  of  Uhlans  before. 
These  have  now  noted  the  name,  for  future 
reference  —  and  action. 


XV 

IN   THE   TBENCHES  —  AN"  OFF-DAY 

THIS  town  is  tinder  constant  shell  fire.  It 
goes  on  day  after  day:  it  has  been  going  on 
for  months.  Sometimes  a  single  shell  conies : 
sometimes  half  a  dozen.  Sometimes  whole 
batteries  get  to  work.  The  effect  is  terrible. 
You  who  live  at  home  in  ease  have  no  con- 
ception of  what  it  is  like  to  live  in  a  town 
which  is  under  intermittent  shell  fire. 

I  say  this  advisedly.  You  have  no  concep- 
tion whatsoever. 

We  get  no  rest.  There  is  a  distant  boom, 
followed  by  a;  crash  overhead.  Cries  are 
heard  —  the  cries  of  women  and  children. 
They  are  running  frantically  —  running  to  ob- 
serve the  explosion,  and  if  possible  pick  up  a 
piece  of  the  shell  as  a  souvenir.  Sometimes 
there  are  not  enough  souvenirs  to  go  round, 
and  then  the  clamour  increases. 

We  get  no  rest,  I  say  —  only  f rightfulness. 
British  officers,  walking  peaceably  along  the 
pavement,  are  frequently  hustled  and  knocked 
aside  by  these  persons.  Only  the  other  day, 


IN"   THE   TRENCHES  — AN   OFF-DAY    201 

a  full  colonel  was  compelled  to  turn  up  a  side- 
street,  to  avoid  disturbing  a  ring  of  excited 
children  who  were  dancing  round  a  beautiful 
new  hole  in  the  ground  in  the  middle  of  a 
narrow  lane. 

If  you  enter  into  a  cafe  or  estaminet,  a  total 
stranger  sidles  to  your  table,  and,  having  sat 
down  beside  you,  produces  from  the  recesses 
of  his  person  a  fragment  of  shrapnel.  This  he 
lays  before  you,  and  explains  that  if  he  had 
been  standing  at  the  spot  where  the  shell 
burst,  it  would  have  killed  him.  You  express 
polite  regret,  and  pass  on  elsewhere,  seeking 
peace  and  finding  none.  The  whole  thing  is  a 
public  scandal. 

Seriously,  though,  it  is  astonishing  what 
contempt  familiarity  can  breed,  even  in  the 
case  of  high-explosive  shells.  This  little  town 
lies  close  behind  the  trenches.  All  day  long 
the  big  guns  boom.  By  night  the  rifles  and 
machine-guns  take  up  the  tale.  One  is  fre- 
quently aroused  from  slumber,  especially  to- 
wards dawn,  by  a  perfect  tornado  of  firing. 
The  machine-guns  make  a  noise  like  a  giant 
tearing  calico.  Periodically,  too,  as  already 
stated,  we  are  subjected  to  an  hour's  intimi- 
dation in  the  shape  of  bombardment.  Shrap- 
nel bursts  over  our  heads;  shells  explode  in 
the  streets,  especially  in  open  spaces,  or  where 
two  important  streets  cross.  (With  modern 
artillery  you  can  shell  a  town  quite  methodi- 
cally by  map  and  compass.) 

Brother  Bosche's  motto  appears  to  be:  "It 


202    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

is  a  fine  morning.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
trenches  doing.  We  abundant  ammunition 
have.  Let  us  a  little  frightfulness  into  the 
town  pump  1 "  So  he  pumps. 

But  nobody  seems  to  mind.  Of  course 
there  is  a  casualty  now  and  then.  Occasion- 
ally a  hole  is  blown  in  a  road,  or  the  side  of  a 
house  is  knocked  in.  Yet  the  general  atti- 
tude of  the  population  is  one  of  rather  in- 
terested expectancy.  There  is  always  the 
cellar  to  retire  to  if  things  get  really  serious. 
The  gratings  are  sandbagged  to  that  end.  At 
other  times  —  well,  there  is  always  the  pleas- 
ing possibility  of  witnessing  the  sudden  re- 
moval of  your  neighbour's  landmark. 

Officers  breakfasting  in  their  billets  look  up 
from  their  porridge,  and  say, — 

"That's  a  dud!  That's  a  better  one !  Stick 
to  it,  Bill  I" 

It  really  is  most  discouraging,  to  a  sensitive 
and  conscientious  Hun. 

The  same  unconcern  reigns  in  the  trenches. 
Let  us  imagine  that  we  are  members  of  a  dis- 
tinguished party  from  Headquarters,  about 
to  make  a  tour  of  inspection. 

We  leave  the  town,  and  after  a  short  walk 
along  the  inevitable  poplar-lined  road  turn 
into  a  field.  The  country  all  round  us  is 
flat  —  flat  as  Cheshire;  and,  like  Cheshire, 
has  a  pond  in  every  field.  But  in  the  hazy 
distance  stands  a  low  ridge. 

"Better  keep  close  to  the  hedge,"  suggests 


IN   THE   TRENCHES —  AN   OFF-DAY    203 

the  officer  in  charge.  "There  are  eighty  guns 
on  that  ridge.  It's  a  misty  morning;  but 
they've  got  all  the  ranges  about  here  to  a 
yard;  so  they  might " 

We  keep  close  to  the  hedge. 

Presently  we  find  ourselves  entering  upon 
a  wide  but  sticky  path  cut  in  the  clay.  At 
the  entrance  stands  a  neat  notice-board,  which 
announces,  somewhat  unexpectedly:  — 

OLD  KENT  EOAD 

The  field  is  flat,  but  the  path  runs  down- 
hill. Consequently  we  soon  find  ourselves 
tramping  along  below  the  ground-level,  with 
a  stout  parapet  of  clay  on  either  side  of  us. 
Overhead  there  is  nothing  —  nothing  but  the 
blue  sky,  with  the  larks  singing,  quite  regard- 
less of  the  War. 

"Communication  trench,"  explains  the 
guide. 

We  tramp  along  this  sunken  lane  for  the 
best  part  of  a  mile.  'It  winds  a  good  deal. 
Every  hundred  yards  or  so  comes  a  great 
promontory  of  sandbags,  necessitating  four 
right-angle  turns.  Once  we  pass  under  the 
shadow  of  trees,  and  apple-blossom  flutters 
down  upon  our  upturned  faces.  We  are 
walking  through  an  orchard.  Despite  the 
efforts  of  ten  million  armed  men,  brown  old 
Mother  Earth  has  made  it  plain  that  seed- 
time and  harvest  shall  still  prevail. 

Now  we  are  crossing  a  stream,  which  cuts 
the  trench  at  right  angles.  The  stream  is 


204    THE   FIKST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

spanned  by  a  structure  of  planks  —  labelled, 
it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  LONDON  BBIDGE. 
The  side-street,  so  to  speak,  by  which  the 
stream  runs  away,  is  called  JOCK'S  JOY.  We 
ask  why? 

"It's  the  place  where  the  Highlanders 
wash  their  knees,"  is  the  explanation. 

Presently  we  arrive  at  PICCADILLY  CIBCUS, 
a  muddy  excavation  in  the  earth,  from  which 
several  passages  branch.  These  thorough- 
fares are  not  all  labelled  with  strict  regard 
for  London  geography.  We  note  THE  HAY- 

MABKET,       also       PICCADILLY;      but      ABTILLEBY 

LANE  seems  out  of  place,  somehow.  On  the 
site,  too,  of  the  Criterion,  we  observe  a 
subterranean  cavern  containing  three  recum- 
bent figures,  snoring  lustily.  This  bears  the 
sign  CYCLISTS'  BEST. 

We,  however,  take  the  turning  marked 
SHAFTESBUBY  AVENUE,  and  after  passing 
(quite  wrongly,  don't  you  think?)  through 
TEAFALGAB  SQUABE  —  six  feet  by  eight  —  find 
ourselves  in  the  actual  firing  trench. 

It  is  an  unexpectedly  spacious  place.  We, 
who  have  spent  the  winter  constructing  slits 
in  the  ground  two  feet  wide,  feel  quite  lost  in 
this  roomy  thoroughfare.  For  a  thoroughfare 
it  is,  with  little  toy  houses  on  either  side. 
They  are  hewn  out  of  the  solid  earth,  lined 
with  planks,  painted,  furnished,  and  deco- 
rated. These  are,  so  to  speak,  permanent 
trenches,  which  have  been  occupied  for  more 
than  six  months. 


IN   THE   TRENCHES  — AN   OFF-DAY    205 

Observe  this  eligible  residence  on  your  left. 
It  has  a  little  door,  nearly  six  feet  high,  and 
a  real  glass  window,  with  a  little  curtain. 
Inside,  there  is  a  bunk,  six  feet  long,  together 
with  an  ingenious  folding  washhand-stand,  of 
the  nautical  variety,  and  a  flap-table.  The 
walls,  which  are  painted  pale  green,  are 
decorated  with  elegant  extracts  from  the 
' '  Sketch ' '  and ' '  La  Vie  Parisienne. ' '  Outside, 
the  name  of  the  villa  is  painted  up.  It  is 
in  Welsh  —  that  notorious  railway  station  in 
Anglesey  which  runs  to  thirty-three  syllables 
or  so  —  and  extends  from  one  end  of  the 
fagade  to  the  other.  A  small  placard  an- 
nounces that  Hawkers,  Organs,  and  Street- 
cries  are  prohibited. 

"This  is  my  shanty,"  explains  a  machine- 
gun  officer  standing  by.  "It  was  built  by  a 
Welsh  Fusilier,  who  has  since  moved  on.  He 
was  here  all  winter,  and  made  everything 
himself,  including  the  washhand-stand.  Some 
carpenter  —  what  I  of  course  I  am  not  here 
continuously.  We  have  six  days  in  the 
trenches  and  six  out;  so  I  take  turns  with 
a  man  in  the  Midland  Mudcrushers,  who  take 
turns  with  us.  Come  in  and  have  some  tea." 

It  is  only  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but 
tea  —  strong  and  sweet,  with  condensed  milk 
—  is  instantly  forthcoming.  Refreshed  by 
this,  and  a  slice  of  cake,  we  proceed  upon 
our  excursion. 

The  trench  is  full  of  men,  mostly  asleep; 
for  the  night  cometh,  when  no  man  may  sleep. 


206    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

They  lie  in  low-roofed  rectangular  caves,  like 
the  interior  of  great  cucumber-frames,  lined 
with  planks  and  supported  by  props.  The 
cave  is  really  a  homogeneous  affair,  for  it  is 
constructed  in  the  E.E.  workshops  and  then 
brought  bodily  to  the  trenches  and  fitted  into 
its  appointed  excavation.  Each  cave  holds 
three  men.  They  lie  side  by  side,  like  three 
dogs  in  a  triple  kennel,  with  their  heads  out- 
ward and  easily  accessible  to  the  individual 
who  performs  the  functions  of  "knocker-up." 

Others  are  cooking,  others  are  cleaning 
their  rifles.  The  proceedings  are  superin- 
tended by  a  contemplative  tabby  cat,  coiled 
up  in  a  niche,  like  a  feline  flower  in  a 
crannied  wall. 

"She  used  ter  sit  on  top  of  the  parapet," 
explains  a  friendly  lance-corporal;  "but  be- 
came a  casualty,  owin'  to  a  sniper  mistakin' 
7er  for  a  Guardsman's  bearskin.  Show  the 
officer  your  back,  Christabel ! " 

We  inspect  the  healed  scar,  and  pass  on. 
Next  moment  we  round  a  traverse  —  and  walk 
straight  into  the  arms  of  Privates  Ogg  and 
Hogg! 

No  need  now  to  remain  with  the  distin- 
guished party  from  Headquarters.  For  the 
next  half-mile  of  trench  you  will  find  your- 
selves among  friends.  "K(l)"  and  Brother 
Bosche  are  face  to  face  at  last,  and  here  you 
beholdpour  own  particular  band  of  warriors 
taking  their  first  spell  in  the  trenches. 

Let  us  open  the  door  of  this  spacious  dug- 


I1ST   THE   TEENCHES  — AN   OFF-DAY    207 

out  —  the  image  of  an  up-river  bungalow, 
decorated  with  window-boxes  and  labelled 
POTSDAM  VIEW  —  and  join  the  party  of  four 
which  sits  round  the  table. 

"How  did  your  fellows  get  on  last  night, 
Wagstaffe?"  inquires  Major  Kemp. 

"Very  well,  on  the  whole.  It  was  a  really 
happy  thought  on  the  part  of  the  authorities 
—  almost  human,  in  fact  —  to  put  us  in  along- 
side the  old  regiment." 

"Or  what's  left  of  them." 

Wagstaffe  nods  gravely. 

"Yes.  There  are  some  changes  in  the  Mess 
since  I  last  dined  there,"  he  says.  "Anyhow, 
the  old  hands  took  our  boys  to  their  bosoms 
at  once,  and  showed  them  the  ropes. ' ' 

"The  men  did  not  altogether  fancy  look- 
out work  in  the  dark,  sir,"  says  Bobby  Little 
to  Major  Kemp. 

"Neither  should  I,  very  much,"  said  Kemp. 
"To  take  one's  stand  on  a  ledge  fixed  at  a 
height  which  brings  one's  head  and  shoulders 
well  above  the  parapet,  and  stand  there  for 
an  hour  on  end,  knowing  that  a  machine-gun 
may  start  a  spell  of  rapid  traversing  fire  at 
any  moment  —  well,  it  takes  a  bit  of  doing, 
you  know,  until  you  are  used  to  it.  How  did 
you  persuade  'em,  Bobby?" 

"Oh,  I  just  climbed  up  on  the  top  of  the 
parapet  and  sat  there  for  a  bit,"  says  Bobby 
Little  modestly.  "They  were  all  right  after 
that." 

"Had  you  any  excitement,  Ayling?"  asks 


208    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED  THOUSAND 

Kemp. "  "I  hear  rumours  that  you  had  two 
casualties." 

"Yes,"  says  Ayling.  "Four  of  us  went 
out  patrolling  in  front  of  the  trench " 

"Who?" 

"Myself,  two  men,  and  old  Sergeant  Car- 
frae." 

"Carfrae?"  Wagstaffe  laughs.  "That 
old  fire-eater?  I  remember  him  at  Paarde- 
berg.  You  were  lucky  to  get  back  alive. 
Proceed,  my  son!" 

"We  went  out,"  continues  Ayling,  "and 
patrolled." 

"How?" 

"Well,  there  you  rather  have  me.  I  have 
always  been  a  bit  foggy  as  to  what  a  patrol 
really  does  —  what  risks  it  takes,  and  so  on. 
However,  Carfrae  had  no  doubts  on  the 
subject  whatever.  His  idea  was  to  trot  over 
to  the  German  trenches  and  look  inside. ' ' 

"Quite  so!"  agreed  Wagstaffe,  and  Kemp 
chuckled. 

"Well,  we  were  standing  by  the  barbed 
wire  entanglement,  arguing  the  point,  when 
suddenly  some  infernal  imbecile  in  our  own 
trenches " 

"Cockerell,  for  a  dollar!"  murmurs  Wag- 
staff  e.  * l  Don 't  say  he  fired  at  you ! ' ' 

"No,  he  did  worse.  He  let  off  a  fire- 
ball." 

"Whew!  And  there  you  stood  in  the 
limelight!" 

"Exactly." 


IN  THE   TRENCHES  — AN   OFF-DAY    209 

11  What  did  you  do?" 

"I  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  do 
what  Carfrae  did.  I  threw  myself  on  my 
face,  and  shouted  to  the  two  men  to  do  the 
same. ' ' 

"Did  they!" 

"No.  They  started  to  run  back  towards 
the  trenches.  Half  a  dozen  German  rifles 
opened  on  them  at  once. ' ' 

"Were  they  badly  hit!" 

"Nothing  to  speak  of,  considering.  The 
shots  mostly  went  high.  Preston  got  his 
elbow  smashed,  and  Burke  had  a  bullet 
through  his  cap  and  another  in  the  region 
of  the  waistband.  Then  they  tumbled  into 
the  trench  like  rabbits.  Carfrae  and  I 
crawled  after  them. ' ' 

At  this  moment  the  doorway  of  the  dug- 
out is  darkened  by  a  massive  figure,  and 
Major  Kemp's  colour-sergeant  announces  — 

"There's  a  parrty  of  Gairmans  gotten  oot 
o'  their  trenches,  sirr.  Will  we  open  fire?" 

"Go  and  have  a  look  at  'em,  like  a  good 
chap,  Wagger,"  says  the  Major.  "I  want 
to  finish  this  letter." 

Wagstaffe  and  Bobby  Little  make  their 
way  along  the  trench  until  they  come  to  a 
low  opening  marked  MAXIM  VILLA.  They 
crawl  inside,  and  find  themselves  in  a  semi- 
circular recess,  chiefly  occupied  by  an  earthen 
platform,  upon  which  a  machine-gunis  mounted. 
The  recess  is  roofed  over,  heavily  protected 
with  sandbags,  and  lined  with  iron  plates; 


210    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

for  a  machine-gun  emplacement  is  the  object 
of  frequent  and  pressing  attention  from  high- 
explosive  shells.  There  are  loopholes  to  right 
and  left,  but  not  in  front.  These  deadly 
weapons  prefer  diagonal  or  enfilade  fire.  It 
is  not  worth  while  to  fire  them  f  rontally. 

Wagstaffe  draws  back  a  strip  of  sacking 
which  covers  one  loophole,  and  peers  out. 
There,  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away,  across 
a  sunlit  field,  he  beholds  some  twenty  grey 
figures,  engaged  in  the  most  pastoral  of  pur- 
suits, in  front  of  the  German  trenches. 

"They  are  cutting  the  grass,"  he  says. 
"Let  'em,  by  all  means!  If  they  don't,  we 
must.  We  don't  want  their  bomb-throwers 
crawling  over  here  through  a  hay-field.  Let 
us  encourage  them  by  every  means  in  our 
power.  It  might  almost  be  worth  our  while 
to  send  them  a  message.  Walk  along  the 
trench,  Bobby,  and  see  that  no  excitable 
person  looses  off  at  them." 

Bobby  obeys;  and  peace  still  broods  over 
the  sleepy  trench.  The  only  sound  which 
breaks  the  summer  stillness  is  the  everlasting 
crack,  crack!  of  the  snipers'  rifles.  On  an 
off-day  like  this  the  sniper  is  a  very  necessary 
person.  He  serves  to  remind  us  that  we  are 
at  war.  Concealed  in  his  own  particular  eyrie, 
with  his  eyes  for  ever  laid  along  his  telescopic 
sight,  he  keeps  ceaseless  vigil  over  the  ragged 
outline  of  the  enemy's  trenches.  Wherever  a 
head,  or  anything  resembling  a  head,  shows 
itself,  he  fires.  Were  it  not  for  his  enthusiasm, 


IN  THE   TKENCHES  — AN   OFF-DAY    211 

both  sides  would  be  sitting  in  their  -shirt- 
sleeves upon  their  respective  parapets,  regard- 
ing one  another  with  frank  curiosity;  and 
that  would  never  do.  So  the  day  wears  on. 

Suddenly,  from  far  in  our  rear,  comes  a 
boom,  then  another.  Wagstaffe  sighs  re- 
signedly. 

"Why  can't  they  let  well  alone?"  he  com- 
plains. "What's  the  trouble  now?" 

"I  expect  it's  our  Divisional  Artillery 
having  a  little  target  practice,"  says  Captain 
Blaikie.  He  peers  into  a  neighbouring  trench- 
periscope.  "Yes,  they  are  shelling  that  farm 
behind  the  German  second-line  trench.  Mak- 
ing good  shooting  too,  for  beginners,"  as  a 
column  of  dust  and  smoke  rises  from  behind 
the  enemy's  lines.  "But  brother  Bosche  will 
be  very  peevish  about  it.  We  don't  usually 
fire  at  this  time  of  the  afternoon.  Yes,  there 
is  the  haymaking  party  going  home.  There 
will  be  a  beastly  noise  for  the  next  half -hour. 
Pass  the  word  along  for  every  man  to  get  into 
his  dug-out." 

The  warning  comes  none  too  soon.  In  five 
minutes  the  incensed  Hun  is  retaliating  for 
the  disturbance  of  his  afternoon  siesta.  A 
hail  of  bullets  passes  over  our  trench. 
Shrapnel  bursts  overhead.  High-explosive 
shells  rain  upon  and  around  the  parapet. 
One  drops  into  the  trench,  and  explodes,  with 
surprisingly  little  effect.  (Bobby  Little  found 
the  head  afterwards,  and  sent  it  home  as  a 
memento  of  his  first  encounter  with  reality.) 


212    THE   FIKST   HUNDKED  THOUSAND 

Our  trench  makes  no  reply.  There  is  no 
need.  This  outburst  heralds  no  grand  assault. 
It  is  a  mere  display  of  "frightfulness,"  calcu- 
lated to  cow  the  impressionable  Briton.  We 
sit  close,  and  make  tea.  Only  the  look-out 
men,  crouching  behind  their  periscopes  and 
loopholes,  keep  their  posts.  The  wind  is  the 
wrong  way  for  gas,  and  in  any  case  we  all 
have  respirators.  Private  M'Leary,  the 
humorist  of  "A"  Company,  puts  his  on, 
and  pretends  to  drink  his  tea  through  it. 

Altogether,  the  British  soldier  appears 
sadly  unappreciative  either  of  "frightful- 
ness"  or  practical  chemistry.  He  is  a  hope- 
less case. 

The  firing  ceases  as  suddenly  as  it  began. 
Silence  reigns  again,  broken  only  by  a  solitary 
shot  from  a  trench-mortar  —  a  sort  of  explo- 
sive postscript  to  a  half  hour's  Hymn  of  Hate. 

"And  that's  that!"  observes  Captain 
Blaikie  cheerfully,  emerging  from  Potsdam 
View.  "The  Hun  is  a  harmless  little  creature, 
but  noisy  when  roused.  Now,  what  about 
getting  home1?  It  will  be  dark  in  half  an 
hour  or  so.  Platoon  commanders,  warn  your 
men!" 

It  should  be  noted  that  upon  this  occasion 
we  are  not  doing  our  full  spell  of  duty  —  that 
is,  six  days.  We  have  merely  come  in  for 
a  spell  of  instruction,  of  twenty-four  hours' 
duration,  under  the  chaperonage  of  our  elder 
and  more  seasoned  brethren. 

Bobby  Little,  having  given  the  necessary 


IN  THE   TEENCHES  — AN   OFF-DAY    213 

orders  to  his  sergeant,  proceeded  to  Trafalgar 
Square,  there  to  await  the  mustering  of  his 
platoon. 

But  the  first  arrival  took  the  form  of  a 
slow-moving  procession  —  a  corporal,  followed 
by  two  men  carrying  a  stretcher.  On  the 
stretcher  lay  something  covered  with  a 
ground-sheet.  At  one  end  projected  a  pair 
of  regulation  boots,  very  still  and  rigid. 

Bobby  caught  his  breath.  He  was  just 
nineteen,  and  this  was  his  first  encounter 
with  sudden  death. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked  unsteadily. 

The  corporal  saluted. 

"Private  M'Leary,  sirr.  That  last  shot 
from  the  trench-mortar  got  him.  It  came 
in  kin'  o9  sideways.  He  was  sittin'  at  the 
end  of  his  dug-oot,  gettin'  his  tea.  Stretcher 
party,  advance!" 

The  procession  moved  off  again,  and  dis- 
appeared round  the  curve  of  Shaftesbury 
Avenue.  The  off-day  was  over. 


XVI 


WOEK  AT  THE  CEOSS-EOADS 

TO-NIGHT  " 

LAST  week  we  abandoned  the  rural  billets  in 
which  we  had  been  remodelling  some  of  our 
methods  (on  the  experiences  gained  by  our 
first  visit  to  the  trenches),  and  paraded  at 
full  strength  for  a  march  which  we  knew 
would  bring  us  right  into  the  heart  of  things. 
No  more  trial  trips  ;  no  more  chaperoning  ! 
This  time,  we  decided,  we  were  "for  it." 

During  our  three  weeks  of  active  service  we 
have  learned  two  things  —  the  art  of  shaking 
down  quickly  into  our  habitation  of  the 
moment,  as  already  noted;  and  the  art  of 
reducing  our  personal  effects  to  a  portable 
minimum. 

To  the  private  soldier  the  latter  problem 
presents  no  difficulties.  Everything  is  ar- 
ranged for  him.  His  outfit  is  provided  by  the 
Government,  and  he  carries  it  himself.  It 
consists  of  a  rifle,  bayonet,  and  a  hundred  and 
twenty  rounds  of  ammunition.  On  one  side 
of  him  hangs  his  water-bottle,  containing  a 


I 

DIRTY   WORK   AT    THE    CROSS-EOADS    215 

quart  of  water,  on  the  other,  a  haversack, 
occupied  by  his  ' '  iron  ration  "  —  an  emergency 
meal  of  the  tinned  variety,  which  must  never 
on  any  account  be  opened  except  by  order  of 
the  C.O.  —  and  such  private  effects  as  his 
smoking  outfit  and  an  entirely  mythical  item 
of  refreshment  officially  known  as  "the  un- 
expended portion  of  the  day's  ration."  On 
his  back  he  carries  a  "pack,"  containing  his 
greatcoat,  waterproof  sheet,  and  such  changes 
of  raiment  as  a  paternal  Government  allows 
him.  He  also  has  to  find  room  therein  for  a 
towel,  housewife,  and  a  modest  allowance  of 
cutlery.  (He  frequently  wears  the  spoon  in 
his  stocking,  as  a  skean-dhu.)  Bound  his 
neck  he  wears  his  identity  disc.  In  his 
breast-pocket  he  carries  a  respirator,  to  be 
donned  in  the  event  of  his  encountering  the 
twin  misfortunes  of  an  east  wind  and  a 
gaseous  Hun.  He  also  carries  a  bottle  of 
liquid  for  damping  the  respirator.  In  the 
flap  of  his  jacket  is  sewn  a  field  dressing. 

Slung  behind  him  is  an  entrenching  tool. 

Any  other  space  upon  his  person  is  at  his 
own  disposal,  and  he  may  carry  what  he  likes, 
except  ' i  unsoldierly  trinkets ' '  —  whatever 
these  may  be.  However,  if  the  passion  for 
self-adornment  proves  too  strong,  he  may  wear 
"the  French  National  Colours" —  a  compli- 
ment to  our  gallant  ally  which  is  slightly 
discounted  by  the  fact  that  her  national 
colours  are  the  same  as  our  own,, 

However,  once  he  has  attached  this  outfit 


216    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

v  •*•**.. 

to  Ms  suffering  person,  and  has  said  what  he 
thinks  about  its  weight,  the  private  has  no 
more  baggage  worries.  Except  for  his  blan- 
ket, which  is  carried  on  a  waggon,  he  is  his 
own  arsenal,  wardrobe,  and  pantry. 

Not  so  the  officer.  He  suffers  from  em- 
barras  de  choix.  He  is  the  victim  of  his 
female  relatives,  who  are  themselves  the 
victims  of  those  enterprising  tradesmen  who 
have  adopted  the  most  obvious  method  of 
getting  rid  of  otherwise  unsaleable  goods  by 
labelling  everything  For  Active  Service  —  a 
really  happy  thought  when  you  are  trying  to 
sell  a  pipe  of  port  or  a  manicure  set.  Have 
you  seen  Our  Active  Service  Trouser-Press? 

By  the  end  of  April  Bobby  Little  had 
accumulated,  with  a  view  to  facilitating  the 
destruction  of  the  foe  — 

An  automatic  Mauser  pistol,  with  two 
thousand  rounds  of  ammunition. 

A  regulation  Service  revolver. 

A  camp  bed. 

A  camp  table. 

A  camp  chair. 

A  pneumatic  mattress. 

[This  ingenious  contrivance  was  meant  to 
be  blown  up,  like  an  air-cushion,  and  Bobby's 
servant  expended  most  of  the  day  and  much 
valuable  breath  in  performing  the  feat.  Ulti- 
mately, in  a  misguided  attempt  to  save  his 
lungs  from  rupture,  he  employed  a  bicycle 
pump,  and  burst  the  bed.] 


DIETY   WORK   AT   THE    CROSS-ROADS    217 

A  sleeping  (or  "flea")  bag. 

A  portable  bath. 

A  portable  washhand-stand. 

A  dressing-case,  heavily  ballasted  with  cut- 
glass  bottles. 

A  primus  stove. 

A  despatch  case. 

The  "Service"  Kipling  (about  forty  vol- 
umes.) 

Innumerable  socks  and  shirts. 

A  box  of  soap. 

Fifty  boxes  of  matches. 

A  small  medicine  chest. 

About  a  dozen  first-aid  outfits. 

A  case  of  pipes,  and  cigarettes  innumerable. 

[Bobby's  aunts  regarded  cigars  as  not  quite 
ascetic  enough  for  active  service.  Besides, 
they  might  make  him  sick.] 

About  a  cubic  foot  of  chocolate  (various). 

Numerous  compressed  foods  and  concen- 
trated drinks. 

An  "active  service"  cooking  outfit. 

An  electric  lamp,  with  several  refills. 

A  pair  of  binoculars. 

A  telescope. 

A  prismatic  compass. 

A  sparklet  siphon. 

A  luminous  watch. 

A  pair  of  insulated  wire-cutters. 

"There's  only  one  thing  you've  forgotten," 
remarked  Captain  Wagstaffe,  when  intro- 
duced to  this  unique  colection  of  curios. 


218    THE   FIKST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

"What  is  that?"  inquired  Bobby,  always 
eager  to  learn. 

"A  pantechnicon!  Do  you  known  how 
much  personal  baggage  an  officer  is  allowed, 
in  addition  to  what  he  carries  himself  I" 

"Thirty-five  pounds. " 

"Correct." 

"It  sounds  a  lot,"  said  Bobby. 

"It  looks  precious  little!"  was  Wagstaffe's 
reply. 

"I  suppose  they  won't  be  particular  to  a 
pound  or  so,"  said  Bobby  optimistically. 

"Listen,"  commanded  Wagstaffe.  "When 
we  go  abroad,  your  Wolseley  valise,  contain- 
ing this"  —  he  swept  his  hand  round  the 
crowded  hut  —  "this  military  museum,  will 
be  handed  to  the  Quartermaster.  He  is  a 
man  of  singularly  rigid  mind,  with  an  exas- 
perating habit  of  interpreting  rules  and  regu- 
lations quite  literally.  If  you  persist  in  this 
scheme  of  asking  him  to  pass  half  a  ton  of 
assorted  lumber  as  a  package  weighing  thirty- 
five  pounds,  he  will  cast  you  forth  and  remain 
your  enemy  for  life.  And  personally,"  con- 
cluded Wagstaffe,  "I  would  rather  keep  on 
the  right  side  of  my  Eegimental  Quarter- 
master than  of  the  Commander-in-Chief  him- 
self. Now,  send  all  this  stuff  home  —  you  can 
use  it  on  manoeuvres  in  peace-time  —  and  I 
will  give  you  a  little  list  which  will  not  break 
the  baggage-waggon's  back." 

The  methodical  Bobby  produced  a  note- 
book. 


DIETY   WOEK   AT    THE    CEOSS-EOADS    219 

"You  will  require  to  wash  occasionally. 
Take  a  canvas  bucket,  some  carbolic  soap, 
and  a  good  big  towel.  Also  your  tooth- 
brush, and  —  excuse  the  question,  but  do 
you  shave  V 

"Twice  a  week,"  admitted  the  blushing 
Bobby. 

"Happy  man!  Well,  take  a  safety-razor. 
That  will  do  for  cleanliness.  Now  for  cloth- 
ing. Lots  of  socks,  but  only  one  change 
of  other  things,  unless  you  care  to  take  a 
third  shirt  in  your  greatcoat  pocket.  Two 
good  pairs  of  boots,  and  a  pair  of  slacks. 
Then,  as  regards  sleeping.  Your  flea-bag  and 
your  three  Government  blankets,  with  your 
valise  underneath,  will  keep  you  (and  your 
little  bedfellows)  as  warm  as  toast.  You 
may  get  separated  from  your  valise,  though, 
so  take  a  ground-sheet  in  your  pack.  Then 
you  will  be  ready  to  dine  and  sleep  simply 
anywhere,  at  a  moment's  notice.  As  regards 
comforts  generally,  take  a  i Tommy's  cooker,' 
if  you  can  find  room  for  it,  and  scrap  all  the 
rest  of  your  cuisine  except  your  canteen. 
Take  a  few  meat  lozenges  and  some  choco- 
late in  one  of  your  ammunition-pouches,  in 
case  you  ever  have  to  go  without  your  break- 
fast. Eotten  work,  marching  or  fighting  on 
a  hollow  tummy ! ' ' 

"What  about  revolvers?"  inquired  Bobby, 
displaying  his  arsenal,  a  little  nervously. 

"If  the  Germans  catch  you  with  that 
Mauser,  they  will  hang  you.  Take  the 


220    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

Webley.  Then  you  can  always  draw  Ser- 
vice ammunition. "  Wagstaffe  ran  Ms  eye 
over  the  rest  of  Bobby's  outfit.  " Smokes? 
Take  your  pipe  and  a  tinder-box:  you  will 
get  baccy  and  cigarettes  to  burn  out  there. 
Keep  that  electric  torch ;  and  your  binoculars, 
of  course.  Also  that  small  majp-case:  it's  a 
good  one.  Also  wire-cutters.  You  can  write 
letters  in  your  field-message-book.  Your  com- 
pass is  all  right.  Add  a  pair  of  canvas  shoes 
—  they're  a  godsend  after  a  long  day,  —  an 
air-pillow,  some  candle-ends,  a  tin  of  vaseline, 
and  a  ball  of  string,  and  I  think  you  will  do. 
If  you  find  you  still  have  a  pound  or  so  in 
hand,  add  a  few  books  —  something  to  fall 
back  on,  in  case  supplies  fail.  Personally, 
I'm  taking  *  Vanity  Fair'  and  'Pickwick.' 
But  then,  I'm  old-fashioned." 

Bobby  took  Wagstaffe's  advice,  with  the 
result  that  that  genial  obstructionist,  the 
Quartermaster,  smiled  quite  benignly  upon 
him  when  he  presented  his  valise;  while  his 
brother  officers,  sternly  bidden  to  revise  their 
equipment,  were  compelled  at  the  last  moment 
to  discriminate  frantically  between  the  claims 
of  necessity  and  luxury  —  often  disastrously. 

However,  we  had  all  found  our  feet,  and 
developed  into  seasoned  vagabonds  when  we 
set  out  for  the  trenches  last  week.  A  few 
days  previously  we  had  been  inspected  by 
Sir  John  French  himself. 

"And  that,"  explained  Major  Kemp  to  his 


DIETY   WORK   AT   THE   CROSS-ROADS    221 

subalterns,  "usually  means  dirty  work  at  the 
cross-roads  at  no  very  distant  period!" 

Major  Kemp  was  right  —  quite  literally 
right. 

Our  march  took  us  back  to  Armentieres, 
whose  sufferings  under  intermittent  shell  fire 
have  already  been  described.  We  marched 
by  night,  and  arrived  at  breakfast-time.  The 
same  evening  two  companies  and  a  section  of 
machine-gunners  were  bidden  to  equip  them- 
selves with  picks  and  shovels  and  parade  at 
dusk.  An  hour  later  we  found  ourselves  pro- 
ceeding cautiously  along  a  murky  road  close 
behind  the  trenches. 

The  big  guns  were  silent,  but  the  snipers 
were  busy  on  both  sides.  A  German  search- 
light was  combing  out  the  heavens  above:  a 
constant  succession  of  star-shells  illumined  the 
earth  beneath. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  to-night,  sir?" 
inquired  Bobby  Little,  heroically  resisting  an 
inclination  to  duck,  as  a  Mauser  bullet  spat 
viciously  over  his  head. 

"I  believe  we  are  going  to  dig  a  redoubt 
behind  the  trenches,"  replied  Captain  Blaikie. 
"I  expect  to  meet  an  E.E.  officer  somewhere 
about  here,  and  he  will  tell  us  the  worst. 
That  was  a  fairly  close  one,  Bobby !  Pass  the 
word  down  quietly  that  the  men  are  to  keep 
in  to  each  side  of  the  road,  and  walk  as  low  as 
they  can.  Ah,  there  is  our  sportsman,  I 
fancy.  Good  evening ! ' ' 


222    THE    FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

A  subaltern  of  that  wonderful  corps,  the 
Eoyal  Engineers,  loomed  out  of  the  darkness, 
removed  a  cigarette  from  his  mouth,  and 
saluted  politely. 

"Good  evening,  sir,''  he  said  to  Blaikie. 
"Will  you  follow  me,  please?  I  have  marked 
out  each  man's  digging  position  with  white 
tape,  so  they  ought  to  find  no  difficulty  in 
getting  to  work.  Brought  your  machine-gun 
officer  ?" 

The  machine-gun  officer,  Ayling,  was  called 
up. 

"We  are  digging  a  sort  of  square  fort,"  ex- 
plained the  Engineer,  "to  hold  a  battalion. 
That  will  mean  four  guns  to  mount.  I  don't 
know  much  about  machine-guns  myself;  so 
perhaps  you  "  —  to  Ayling  —  * l  will  walk  round 
with  me  outside  the  position,  and  you  can 
select  your  own  emplacements." 

"I  shall  be  charmed,"  replied  Ayling,  and 
Blaikie  chuckled. 

"I'll  just  get  your  infantry  to  work  first," 
continued  the  phlegmatic  youth.  "This  way, 
sir!" 

The  road  at  this  point  ran  through  a  hollow 
square  of  trees,  and  it  was  explained  to  the 
working-party  that  the  trees,  roughly,  fol- 
lowed the  outlines  of  the  redoubt. 

"The  trenches  are  about  half -finished," 
added  the  Engineer.  "We  had  a  party  from 
the  Seaforths  working  here  last  night.  Your 
men  have  only  to  carry  on  where  they  left 
off.  It's  chiefly  a  matter  of  filling  sandbags 


DIRTY   WORK   AT    THE    CROSS-ROADS    223 

and  placing  them  on  the  parapet."  He 
pointed  to  a  blurred  heap  in  a  corner  of  the 
wood.  "There  are  fifty  thousand  there. 
Leave  what  you  don't  want!" 

"Where  do  we  get  the  earth  to  fill  the  sand- 
bags?" asked  Blaikie.  "The  trenches,  or 
the  middle  of  the  redoubt?" 

"Oh,  pretty  well  anywhere,"  replied  the 
Engineer.  "Only,  warn  your  men  to  be  care- 
ful not  to  dig  too  deep ! ' ' 

And  with  this  dark  saying  he  lounged  off 
to  take  Ayling  for  his  promised  walk. 

"I'll  take  you  along  the  road  a  bit,  first," 
he  said,  "and  then  we  will  turn  off  into  the 
field  where  the  corner  of  the  redoubt  is,  and 
you  can  look  at  things  from  the  outside. ' 9 

Ayling  thanked  him,  and  stepped  somewhat 
higher  than  usual,  as  a  bullet  struck  the 
ground  at  his  feet. 

"Extraordinary  how  few  casualties  one 
gets,"  continued  the  Sapper  chattily.  "Their 
snipers  go  potting  away  all  night,  but  they 
don't  often  get  anybody.  By  the  way,  they 
have  a  machine-gun  trained  on  this  road,  but 
they  only  loose  it  off  every  second  night. 
Methodical  beggars!" 

"Did  they  loose  it  off  last  night?" 

"No.  To-night's  the  night.  Have  you 
finished  here?" 

"Yes,  thanks!" 

"Eight-o!  We'll  go  to  the  next  corner. 
You'll  get  a  first-class  field  of  fire  there,  I 
should  say." 


224:    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

The  second  position  was  duly  inspected,  the 
only  incident  of  interest  being  the  bursting 
of  a  star-shell  directly  overhead. 

"Better  lie  down  for  a  minute,"  suggested 
the  Engineer. 

Ayling,  who  had  been  struggling  with  a 
strong  inclination  to  do  so  for  some  time, 
promptly  complied. 

"Just  like  the  Crystal  Palace  on  a  benefit 
night!"  observed  his  guide  admiringly,  as 
the  landscape  was  lit  up  with  a  white  glare. 
"Now  you  can  see  your  position  beautifully. 
You  can  fire  obliquely  in  this  direction,  and 
then  do  a  first-class  enfilade  if  the  trenches 
get  rushed." 

"I  see,"  said  Ayling,  surveying  the  position 
with  real  interest.  He  was  beginning  to  en- 
joy selecting  gun-emplacements  which  really 
mattered.  It  was  a  change  from  nine  months 
of  "eye-wash." 

When  the  German  star- shell  had  spent 
itself  they  crossed  the  road,  to  the  rear 
of  the  redoubt,  and  marked  the  other 
two  emplacements  —  in  comparative  safety 
now. 

"The  only  trouble  about  this  place,"  said 
Ayling,  as  he  surveyed  the  last  position,  "is 
that  my  fire  will  be  masked  by  that  house 
with  the  clump  of  trees  beside  it." 

The  Engineer  produced  a  small  note-book, 
and  wrote  in  it  by  the  light  of  a  convenient 
star-shell. 

"Eight-o!"  he  said.    "I'll  have  the  whole 


DIETY   WORK   AT   THE    CROSS-ROADS    225 

caboodle  pushed  over  for  you  by  to-morrow 
night.  Anything  else  f ' ' 

Ayling  began  to  enjoy  himself.  After  you 
have  spent  nine  months  in  an  unprofitable 
attempt  to  combine  practical  machine-gun 
tactics  with  a  scrupulous  respect  for  private 
property,  the  realisation  that  you  may  now 
gratify  your  destructive  instincts  to  the  full 
comes  as  a  welcome  and  luxurious  shock. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.  "You  might  flatten 
out  that  haystack,  too." 

They  found  the  others  hard  at  work  when 
they  returned.  Captain  Blaikie  was  directing 
operations  from  the  centre  of  the  redoubt. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  as  the  Engineer  sat  down 
beside  him,  "I'm  afraid  we're  doing  a  good 
deal  of  body-snatching.  This  place  is  ab- 
solutely full  of  little  wooden  crosses." 

"Germans,"  replied  the  Engineer  laconic- 
ally. 

"How  long  have  they  been  —  here?" 

"Since  October." 

"So  I  should  imagine,"  said  Blaikie,  with 
feeling. 

"The  crosses  aren't  much  guide,  either," 
continued  the  Engineer.  "The  deceased  are 
simply  all  over  the  place.  The  best  plan  is  to 
dig  until  you  come  to  a  blanket.  (There  are 
usually  two  or  three  to  a  blanket.)  Then  tell 
off  a  man  to  flatten  down  clay  over  the  place 
at  once,  and  try  somewhere  else.  It  is  a 
rotten  job,  though,  however  you  look  at  it." 


226    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"Have  you  been  here  long?"  inquired 
Bobby  Little,  who  had  come  across  the  road 
for  a  change  of  air. 

"Long  enough!  But  I'm  not  on  duty  con- 
tinuously. I  am  Box.  Cox  takes  over  to- 
morrow." He  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  at 
his  watch. 

"You  ought  to  move  off  by  half -past  one, 
sir,"  he  said  to  Blaikie.  "It  begins  to  get 
light  after  that,  and  the  Bosches  have  three 
shells  for  that  cross-road  over  there  down  in 
their  time-table  at  two-fifteen.  They're  a 
hide-bound  lot,  but  punctual!" 

"Thanks,"  said  Blaikie.  "I  shall  not 
neglect  your  advice.  It  is  half -past  eleven 
now.  Come  along,  Bobby,  and  we'll  see  how 
old  Ay  ling  is  getting  on." 

Steadily,  hour  by  hour,  in  absolute  silence, 
the  work  went  on.  There  was  no  talking, 
but  (under  extenuating  circumstances)  smok- 
ing was  permitted.  Periodically,  as  the  star- 
shells  burst  into  brilliance  overhead,  the 
workers  sank  down  behind  a  parapet,  or,  if 
there  was  no  time,  stood  rigid  —  the  one  thing 
to  avoid  upon  these  occasions  is  movement  of 
any  kind  —  and  gave  the  snipers  a  chance.  It 
was  not  pleasant,  but  it  was  duty;  and  the 
word  duty  has  become  a  mighty  force  in 
"K(l)"  these  days.  No  one  was  hit,  which 
was  remarkable,  when  you  consider  what  an 
artist  a  German  sniper  is.  Possibly  the  light 
of  the  star-shells  was  deceptive,  or  possibly 


DIRTY   WORK   AT   THE    CROSS-ROADS    227 

there  is  some  truth  in  the  general  rumour 
that  the  Saxons,  who  hold  this  part  of  the 
line,  are  well-disposed  towards  us,  and  con- 
duct their  offensive  operations  with  a  tactful 
blend  of  constant  firing  and  bad  shooting, 
which,  while  it  satisfies  the  Prussians,  causes 
no  serious  inconvenience  to  Thomas  Atkins. 

At  a  quarter-past  one  a  subdued  order  ran 
round  the  trenches;  the  men  fell  in  on  the 
sheltered  side  of  the  plantation;  picks  and 
shovels  were  checked;  rifles  and  equipment 
were  resumed;  and  the  party  stole  silently 
away  to  the  cross-road,  where  the  three  shells 
were  timed  to  arrive  at  two-fifteen.  When 
they  did  so,  with  true  Teutonic  punctuality, 
an  hour  later,  our  friends  were  well  on  their 
way  home  to  billets  and  bed  —  with  the  dawn 
breaking  behind  them,  the  larks  getting  to 
work  overhead,  and  all  the  infected  air  of  the 
German  graveyard  swept  out  of  their  lungs 
by  the  dew  of  the  morning. 

As  for  that  imperturbable  philosopher,  Box, 
he  sat  down  with  a  cigarette,  and  waited  for 
Cox. 


XVII 

THE    NEW   WARFARE 

THE  trench  system  has  one  thing  to  recom- 
mend it.    It  tidies  things  up  a  bit. 

For  the  first  few  months  after  the  war 
broke  out  confusion  reigned  supreme.  Bel- 
gium and  the  north  of  France  were  one  huge 
jumbled  battlefield,  rather  like  a  public  park 
on  a  Saturday  afternoon  —  one  of  those  parks 
where  promiscuous  football  is  permitted. 
Friend  and  foe  were  inextricably  mingled, 
and  the  direction  of  the  goal  was  uncertain. 
If  you  rode  into  a  village,  you  might  find 
it  occupied  by  a  Highland  regiment  or  a 
squadron  of  Uhlans.  If  you  dimly  discerned 
troops  marching  side  by  side  with  you  in  the 
dawning,  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that 
they  would  prove  to  be  your  friends.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  was  never  safe  to  assume  that 
a  battalion  which  you  saw  hastily  entrenching 
itself  against  your  approach  was  German.  It 
might  belong  to  your  own  brigade.  There  was 
no  front  and  no  rear,  so  direction  counted  for 
nothing.  The  country  swarmed  with  troops 


THE   NEW  WARFARE  229 

which  had  been  left  "in  the  air,"  owing  to 
their  own  too  rapid  advance,  or  the  equally 
rapid  retirement  of  their  supporters;  with 
scattered  details  trying  to  rejoin  their  units ; 
or  with  despatch  riders  hunting  for  a  peripa- 
tetic Divisional  Headquarters.  Snipers  shot 
both  sides  impartially.  It  was  all  most 
upsetting. 

Well,  as  already  indicated,  the  trench 
system  has  put  all  that  right.  The  trenches 
now  run  continuously  —  a  long,  irregular,  but 
perfectly  definite  line  of  cleavage  —  from  the 
North  Sea  to  the  Vosges.  Everybody  has 
been  carefully  sorted  out  —  human  beings  on 
one  side,  Germans  on  the  other.  ("Like  the 
Zoo,"  observes  Captain  Wagstaffe.)  Nothing 
could  be  more  suitable.  You're  there,  and 
I'm  here,  so  what  do  we  care?  in  fact. 

The  result  is  an  agreeable  blend  of  war  and 
peace.  This  week,  for  instance,  our  battalion 
has  been  undergoing  a  sort  of  rest-cure  a  few 
miles  from  the  hottest  part  of  the  firing  line. 
(We  had  a  fairly  heavy  spell  of  work  last 
week.)  In  the  morning  we  wash  our  clothes, 
and  perform  a  few  mild  martial  exercises.  In 
the  afternoon  we  sleep,  in  all  degrees  of 
deshabille,  under  the  trees  in  an  orchard.  In 
the  evening  we  play  football,  or  bathe  in  the 
canal,  or  lie  on  our  backs  on  the  grass,  watch- 
ing our  aeroplanes  buzzing  home  to  roost, 
attended  by  German  shrapnel.  We  could 
not  have  done  this  in  the  autumn.  Now, 
thanks  to  our  trenches,  a  few  miles  away,  we 


230    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

are  as  safe  here  as  in  the  wilds  of  Argyllshire 
or  West  Kensington. 

But  there  are  drawbacks  to  everything. 
The  fact  is,  a  trench  is  that  most  uninterest- 
ing of  human  devices,  a  compromise.  It  is 
neither  satisfactory  as  a  domicile  nor  efficient 
as  a  weapon  of  offence.  The  most  luxuriant 
dug-out;  the  most  artistic  window-box  — 
these,  in  spite  of  all  biassed  assertions  to  the 
contrary,  compare  unfavourably  with  a  flat  in 
Knightsbridge.  On  the  other  hand,  the  know- 
ledge that  you  are  keeping  yourself  tolerably 
immune  from  the  assaults  of  your  enemy  is 
heavily  discounted  by  the  fact  that  the  enemy 
is  equally  immune  from  yours.  In  other 
words,  you  "get  no  forrarder"  with  a  trench; 
and  the  one  thing  which  we  are  all  anxious  to 
do  out  here  is  to  bring  this  war  to  a  speedy 
and  gory  conclusion,  and  get  home  to  hot 
baths  and  regular  meals. 

So  a  few  days  ago  we  were  not  at  all  sur- 
prised to  be  informed,  officially,  that  trench 
life  is  to  be  definitely  abandoned,  and  Hun- 
hustling  to  begin  in  earnest. 

(To  be  just,  this  decision  was  made  months 
ago:  the  difficulty  was  to  put  it  into  execu- 
tion. The  winter  weather  was  dreadful.  .  The 
enemy  were  many  and  we  were  few.  In  Ger- 
many, the  devil's  forge  at  Essen  was  roaring 
night  and  day:  in  Great  Britain  Trades 
Union  bosses  were  carefully  adjusting  the 
respective  claims  of  patriotism  and  personal 
dignity  before  taking  their  coats  off.  So  we 


THE   NEW  WAEFARE  231 

cannot  lay  our  want  of  progress  to  the  charge 
of  that  dogged  band  of  Greathearts  which  has 
been  holding  on,  and  holding  on,  and  holding 
on  —  while  the  people  at  home  were  making 
up  for  lost  time  —  ever  since  the  barbarian 
was  hurled  back  from  the  Marne  to  the  Aisne 
and  confined  behind  his  earthen  barrier.  We 
shall  win  this  war  one  day,  and  most  of  the 
credit  will  go,  as  usual,  to  those  who  are  in  at 
the  finish.  But  —  when  we  assign  the  glory 
and  the  praise,  let  us  not  forget  those  who 
stood  up  to  the  first  rush.  The  new  armies 
which  are  pouring  across  the  Channel  this 
month  will  bring  us  victory  in  the  end.  Let 
us  bare  our  heads,  then,  in  all  reverence,  to 
the  memory  of  those  battered,  decimated,  in- 
domitable legions  which  saved  us  from  utter 
extinction  at  the  beginning.) 

The  situation  appears  to  be  that  if  we  get 
through  —  and  no  one  seems  to  doubt  that  we 
shall :  the  difficulty  lies  in  staying  there  when 
you  have  got  through  —  we  shall  be  committed 
at  once  to  an  endless  campaign  of  village- 
fighting.  This  country  is  as  flat  as  Cambridge- 
shire. Every  yard  of  it  is  under  cultivation. 
The  landscape  is  dotted  with  farm-steadings. 
There  is  a  group  of  cottages  or  an  estaminet 
at  every  cross-roads.  When  our  great  invad- 
ing line  sweeps  forward,  each  one  of  these 
buildings  will  be  held  by  the  enemy,  and  must 
be  captured,  house  by  house,  room  by  room, 
and  used  as  a  base  for  another  rush. 

And  how  is  this  to  be  done? 


232    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Well,  it  will  be  no  military  secret  by  the 
time  these  lines  appear.  It  is  no  secret  now. 
The  answer  to  the  conundrum  is  —  Bombs ! 

To-day,  out  here,  bombs  are  absolutely 
dernier  cri.  We  talk  of  nothing  else.  We 
speak  about  rifles  and  bayonets  as  if  they  were 
so  many  bows  and  arrows.  It  is  true  that  the 
modern  Lee-Enfield  and  Mauser  claim  to  be 
the  most  precise  and  deadly  weapons  of  de- 
struction ever  devised.  But  they  were  in- 
tended for  proper,  gentlemanly  warfare,  with 
the  opposing  sides  set  out  in  straight  lines,  a 
convenient  distance  apart.  In  the  hand-to- 
hand  butchery  which  calls  itself  war  to-day, 
the  rifle  is  rapidly  becoming  demode.  For 
long  ranges  you  require  machine-guns;  for 
short,  bombs  and  hand-grenades.  Can  you 
empty  a  cottage  by  firing  a  single  rifle-shot  in 
at  the  door?  Can  you  exterminate  twenty 
Germans  in  a  fortified  back-parlour  by  a  single 
thrust  with  a  bayonet?  Never!  But  you  can 
do  both  these  things  with  a  jam- tin  stuffed 
with  dynamite  and  scrap-iron. 

So  the  bomb  has  come  to  its  own,  and  has 
brought  with  it  certain  changes  —  tactical,  or- 
ganic, and  domestic.  To  take  the  last  first, 
the  bomb-officer,  hitherto  a  despised  underling, 
popularly  (but  maliciously)  reputed  to  have 
been  appointed  to  his  present  post  through 
inability  to  handle  a  platoon,  has  suddenly  at- 
tained a  position  of  dazzling  eminence.  From 
being  a  mere  super,  he  has  become  a  star.  In 
fact,  he  threatens  to  dispute  the  pre-eminence 


THE   NEW  WAEFAEE  233 

of  that  other  regimental  parvenu,  the  Ma- 
chine-Gun Officer.  He  is  now  the  confidant  of 
Colonels,  and  consorts  upon  terms  of  easy 
familiarity  with  Brigade  Majors.  He  holds 
himself  coldly  aloof  from  the  rest  of  us,  brood- 
ing over  the  greatness  of  his  responsibilities ; 
and  when  he  speaks,  it  is  to  refer  darkly  to 
"detonators,"  and  "primers,"  and  "time- 
fuses." And  we,  who  once  addressed  him  de- 
risively as  "Anarchist,"  crowd  round  him  and 
hang  upon  his  lips. 

The  reason  is  that  in  future  it  is  to  be  a  case 
of  —  "For  every  man,  a  bomb  or  two";  and 
it  is  incumbent  upon  us,  if  we  desire  to  prevent 
these  infernal  machines  from  exploding  while 
yet  in  our  custody,  to  attain  the  necessary 
details  as  to  their  construction  and  tender 
spots  by  the  humiliating  process  of  conciliat- 
ing the  Bomb  Officer. 

So  far  as  we  have  mastered  the  mysteries 
of  the  craft,  there  appear  to  be  four  types  of 
bomb  in  store  for  us  —  or  rather,  for  Brother 
Bosche.  They  are :  — 

(1)  The  hair-brush. 

'(2)  The  cricket-ball. 

'(3)  The  policeman's  truncheon. 

(4)  The  jam-tin. 

The  hair-brush  is  very  like  the  ordinary 
hair-brush,  except  that  the  bristles  are  re- 
placed by  a  solid  block  of  high-explosive.  The 
policeman's  truncheon  has  gay  streamers  of 
tape  tied  to  its  tail,  to  ensure  that  it  falls 
to  the  ground  nose  downwards.  Both  these 


234    THE    FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

bombs  explode  on  impact,  and  it  is  unadvisable 
to  knock  them  against  anything  —  say  the 
back  of  the  trench  —  when  throwing  them. 
The  cricket-ball  works  by  a  time-fuse.  Its 
manipulation  is  simplicity  itself.  The  re- 
moval of  a  certain  pin  releases  a  spring 
which  lights  an  internal  fuse,  timed  to  ex- 
plode the  bomb  in  five  seconds.  You  take 
the  bomb  in  your  right  hand,  remove  the 
pin,  and  cast  the  thing  madly  from  you.  The 
jam-tin  variety  appeals  more  particularly 
to  the  sportsman,  as  the  element  of  chance 
enters  largely  into  its  successful  use.  It  is 
timed  to  explode  about  ten  seconds  after  the 
lighting  of  the  fuse.  It  is  therefore  unwise  to 
throw  it  too  soon,  as  there  will  be  ample  time 
for  your  opponent  to  pick  it  up  and  throw  it 
back.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  unwise  to  hold 
on  too  long,  as  the  fuse  is  uncertain  in  its 
action,  and  is  given  to  short  cuts. 

Such  is  the  tactical  revolution  promised  by 
the  advent  of  the  bomb  and  other  new  engines 
of  war.  As  for  its  effect  upon  regimental  and 
company  organisation,  listen  to  the  plaintive 
voice  of  Major  Kemp :  — 

"I  was  once  —  only  a  few  months  ago  — 
commander  of  a  company  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  disciplined  soldiers.  I  still  nomin- 
ally command  that  company,  but  they  have 
developed  into  a  heterogeneous  mob  of 
specialists.  If  I  detail  one  of  my  subalterns 
to  do  a  job  of  work,  he  reminds  me  that  he  is 
a  bomb-expert,  or  a  professor  of  sandbagging, 


THE   NEW   WARFARE  235 

or  director  of  the  knuckle-duster  section,  or 
Lord  High  Thrower  of  Stink-pots,  and  as 
such  has  no  time  to  play  about  with  such  a 
common  thing  as  a  platoon.  As  for  the  men, 
they  simply  laugh  in  the  sergeant-major's 
face.  They  are  i experts,'  if  you  please,  and 
are  struck  off  all  fatigues  and  company  duty ! 
It  was  bad  enough  when  Ayling  pinched 
fourteen  of  my  best  men  for  his  filthy 
machine-guns;  now,  the  company  has  prac- 
tically degenerated  into  an  academy  of 
variety  artists.  The  only  occasion  upon 
which  I  ever  see  them  all  together  is  pay- 
day!" 

Meanwhile,  the  word  has  just  gone  forth, 
quietly  and  without  fuss,  that  we  are  to 
uproot  ourselves  from  our  present  billets, 
and  be  ready  to  move  at  5  A.M.  to-morrow 
morning. 

Is  this  the  Big  Push  at  last? 


n 


We  have  been  waiting  for  the  best  part  of 
two  days  and  nights  listening  to  the  thunder 
of  the  big  guns,  but  as  yet  we  have  received 
no  invitation  to  "butt  in." 

"Plenty  of  time  yet,"  explains  Captain 
Blaikie  to  his  subalterns,  in  reply  to  Bobby 
Little's  expressions  of  impatience.  "It's  this 
way.  We  start  by  '  isolating'  a  section  of 


236    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

the  enemy's  line,  and  pound  it  with  artillery 
for  about  forty-eight  hours.  Then  the  guns 
knock  off,  and  the  people  in  front  rush  the 
German  first-line  trenches.  After  that  they 
push  on  to  their  second  and  third  lines ;  and 
if  they  can  capture  and  hold  them  —  well, 
that's  where  the  fun  comes  in.  We  go  for 
all  we  are  worth  through  the  gaps  the  others 
have  made,  and  carry  on  the  big  push,  and 
keep  the  Bosches  on  the  run  until  they  drop 
in  their  tracks!  That's  the  situation.  If  we 
are  called  up  to-night  or  to-morrow,  it  will 
mean  that  things  are  going  well.  If  not,  it 
means  that  the  attack  has  failed  —  or,  very 
likely,  has  succeeded,  but  it  has  been  found 
impossible  to  secure  the  position  —  and  a  lot 
of  good  chaps  have  been  scuppered,  all  for 
nothing." 


m 


Next  morning  has  arrived,  and  with  it  the 
news  that  our  services  will  not  be  required. 
The  attack,  it  appears,  was  duly  launched, 
and  succeeded  beyond  all  expectations.  The 
German  line  was  broken,  and  report  says  that 
four  Divisions  poured  through  the  gap.  They 
captured  the  second-line  trenches,  then  the 
third,  and  penetrated  far  into  the  enemy's 
rear. 

Then  —  from  their  front  and  flanks,  artil- 
lery and  machine-guns  opened  fire  upon  them. 
They  were  terribly  exposed;  possibly  they 


THE   NEW   WAEFARE  237 

had  been  lured  into  a  trap.  At  any  rate,  the 
process  of  "isolation"  had  not  been  carried 
far  enough.  One  thing,  and  only  one  thing, 
could  have  saved  them  from  destruction  and 
their  enterprise  from  disaster  —  the  support 
of  big  guns,  and  big  guns,  and  more  big  guns. 
These  could  have  silenced  the  hostile  tornado 
of  shrapnel  and  bullets,  and  the  position  could 
have  been  made  good. 

But  —  apparently  the  supply  of  big-gun 
ammunition  is  not  quite  so  copious  as  it 
might  be.  We  have  only  been  at  war  ten 
months,  and  people  at  home  are  still  a  little 
dazed  with  the  novelty  of  their  situation. 
Out  here,  we  are  reasonable  men,  and  we 
realise  that  it  requires  some  time  to  devise 
a  system  for  supplying  munitions  which  shall 
hurt  the  feelings  of  no  pacifist,  which  shall 
interfere  with  no  man's  holiday  or  glass  of 
beer,  which  shall  insult  no  honest  toiler  by 
compelling  him  to  work  side  by  side  with 
those  who  are  not  of  his  industrial  taber- 
nacle, and  which  shall  imperil  no  states- 
man's seat  in  Parliament.  Things  will  be 
all  right  presently. 

Meanwhile,  the  attacking  party  fell  back 
whence  they  came  —  but  no  longer  four  full 
Divisions. 


XVIII 

THE   FEONT   OF   THE  FEONT 

WE  took  over  these  trenches  a  few  days  ago ; 
and  as  the  Germans  are  barely  two  hundred 
yards  away,  this  chapter  seems  to  justify  its 
title. 

For  reasons  foreshadowed  last  month,  we 
find  that  we  are  committed  to  an  indefinite 
period  of  trench  life,  like  every  one  else. 

Certainly  we  are  starting  at  the  bottom 
of  the  ladder.  These  trenches  are  badly 
sited,  badly  constructed,  difficult  of  access 
from  the  rear,  and  swarming  with  large,  fat, 
unpleasant  flies,  of  the  bluebottle  variety. 
They  go  to  sleep,  chiefly  upon  the  ceiling  of 
one 's  dug-out,  during  the  short  hours  of  dark- 
ness, but  for  twenty  hours  out  of  twenty- 
four  they  are  very  busy  indeed.  They  divide 
their  attentions  between  stray  carrion  —  there 
is  a  good  deal  hereabout  —  and  our  rations. 
If  you  sit  still  for  five  minutes  they  also 
settle  upon  you,  like  pins  in  a  pin-cushion. 
Then,  when  face,  hands,  and  knees  can  en- 
dure no  more,  and  the  inevitable  convulsive 


THE    FRONT    OF   THE    FEONT        239 

wriggle  occurs,  they  rise  in  a  vociferous 
swarm,  only  to  settle  again  when  the  victim 
becomes  quiescent.  To  these,  high-explosives 
are  a  welcome  relief. 

The  trenches  themselves  are  no  garden 
city,  like  those  at  Armentieres.  They  were 
sited  and  dug  in  the  dark,  not  many  weeks 
ago,  to  secure  two  hundred  yards  of  French 
territory  recovered  from  the  Bosche  by  bomb 
and  bayonet.  (The  captured  trench  lies  be- 
hind us  now,  and  serves  as  our  second  line.) 
They  are  muddy  —  you  come  to  water  at  three 
feet  —  and  at  one  end,  owing  to  their  con- 
cave formation,  are  open  to  enfilade.  The 
parapet  in  many  places  is  too  low.  If  you 
make  it  higher  with  sandbags  you  offer  the 
enemy  a  comfortable  target:  if  you  deepen 
the  trench  you  turn  it  into  a  running  stream. 
Therefore  long-legged  subalterns  crawl  pain- 
fully past  these  danger-spots  on  all-fours, 
envying  Little  Tich. 

Then  there  is  Zacchaeus.  We  call  him  by 
this  name  because  he  lives  up  a  tree.  There 
is  a  row  of  pollarded  willows  standing  parallel 
to  our  front,  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away. 
Up,  or  in,  one  of  these  lives  Zacchaeus.  We 
have  never  seen  him,  but  we  know  he  is 
there;  because  if  you  look  over  the  top  of 
the  parapet  he  shoots  you  through  the  head. 
We  do  not  even  know  which  of  the  trees  he 
lives  in.  There  are  nine  of  them,  and  every 
morning  we  comb  them  out,  one  by  one,  with 
a  machine-gun.  But  all  in  vain.  Zacchaeus 


240    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

merely  crawls  away  into  the  standing  corn 
behind  his  trees,  and  waits  till  we  l}ave  fin- 
ished. Then  he  comes  back  and  tries  to 
shoot  the  machine-gun  officer.  He  has  not 
succeeded  yet,  but  he  sticks  to  his  task  with 
gentle  persistence.  He  is  evidently  of  a  per- 
severing rather  than  vindictive  disposition. 

Then  there  is  Unter  den  Linden.  This 
celebrated  thoroughfare  is  an  old  communi- 
cation-trench. It  runs,  half -ruined,  from  the 
old  German  trench  in  our  rear,  right  through 
our  own  front  line,  to  the  present  German 
trenches.  It  constitutes  such  a  bogey  as 
the  Channel  Tunnel  scheme  once  was:  each 
side  sits  jealously  at  its  own  end,  anticipat- 
ing hostile  enterprises  from  the  other.  It  is 
also  the  residence  of  "Minnie."  But  we  will 
return  to  Minnie  later. 

The  artillery  of  both  sides,  too,  contributes 
its  mite.  There  is  a  dull  roar  far  in  the  rear 
of  the  German  trenches,  followed  by  a  whir- 
ring squeak  overhead.  Then  comes  an  earth- 
shaking  crash  a  mile  behind  us.  "We  whip 
round,  and  there,  in  the  failing  evening  light, 
against  the  sunset,  there  springs  up  the  sil- 
houette of  a  mighty  tree  in  full  foliage.  Pres- 
ently the  silhouette  disperses,  drifts  away, 
and  — 

"The  coals  is  hame,  right  enough !"  com- 
ments Private  Tosh. 

Instantly  our  guns  reply,  and  we  become 
the  humble  spectators  of  an  artillery  duel. 
Of  course,  if  the  enemy  gets  tired  of 


THE    FRONT   OF   THE    FRONT        241 

"searching"  the  countryside  for  our  guns 
and  takes  to  "  searching "  our  trenches  in- 
stead, we  lose  all  interest  in  the  proceedings, 
and  retire  to  our  dug-outs,  hoping  that  no 
direct  hits  will  come  our  way. 

But  guns  are  notoriously  erratic  in  their 
time-tables,  and  fickle  in  their  attentions.  It 
is  upon  Zacchaeus  and  Unter  den  Linden  — 
including  Minnie  —  that  we  mainly  rely  for 
excitement. 

As  already  recorded,  we  took  over  these 
trenches  a  few  days  ago,  in  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning.  In  the  ordinary  course  of 
events,  relieving  parties  are  usually  able  to 
march  up  under  cover  of  darkness  to  the 
reserve  trench,  half  a  mile  in  rear  of  the 
firing  line,  and  so  proceed  to  their  appointed 
place.  But  on  this  occasion  the  German 
artillery  happened  to  be  "distributing  coal" 
among  the  billets  behind.  This  made  it 
necessary  to  approach  our  new  home  by 
tortuous  ways,  and  to  take  to  subterranean 
courses  at  a  very  early  stage  of  the  journey. 
For  more  than  two  hours  we  toiled  along  a 
trench  just  wide  enough  to  permit  a  man  to 
wear  his  equipment,  sometimes  bent  double 
to  avoid  the  bullets  of  snipers,  sometimes 
knee-deep  in  glutinous  mud. 

Ayling,  leading  a  machine-gun  section  who 
were  burdened  with  their  weapons  and  seven 
thousand  rounds  of  ammunition,  mopped  his 
steaming  brow  and  inquired  of  his  guide  how 
much  farther  there  was  to  go. 


212    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"Abart  two  miles,  sir,"  replied  the  youth 
with  gloomy  satisfaction.  He  was  a  private 
of  the  Cockney  regiment  whom  we  were  re- 
lieving; and  after  the  manner  of  his  kind, 
would  infinitely  have  preferred  to  conduct 
us  down  half  a  mile  of  a  shell-swept  road, 
leading  straight  to  the  heart  of  things,  than 
waste  time  upon  an  uninteresting  but  safe 
detour. 

At  this  Ayling's  Number  One,  who  was 
carrying  a  machine-gun  tripod  weighing  forty- 
eight  pounds,  said  something  —  something 
distressingly  audible  —  and  groaned  deeply. 

"If  we'd  come  the  way  I  wanted,"  con- 
tinued the  guide,  much  pleased  with  the 
effect  of  his  words  upon  his  audience,  "we'd 
a'  been  there  be  now.  But  the  Adjutant,  'e 
says  to  me " 

"If  we  had  come  the  way  you  wanted," 
interrupted  Ay  ling  brutally,  "we  should  prob- 
ably have  been  in  Kingdom  Come  by  now. 
Hurry  up ! "  Ay  ling,  in  common  with  the  rest 
of  those  present,  was  not  in  the  best  of  tem- 
pers, and  the  loquacity  of  the  guide  had  been 
jarring  upon  him  for  some  time. 

The  Cockney  private,  with  the  air  of  a 
deeply-wronged  man,  sulkily  led  on,  followed 
by  the  dolorous  procession.  Another  ten 
minutes'  laboured  progress  brought  them  to 
a  place  where  several  ways  met. 

"This  is  the  beginning  of  the  reserve 
trenches,  sir,"  announced  the  guide.  "If 
we'd  come  the  way  I " 


THE  FRONT  OF  THE  FRONT    243 

"Lead  on!"  said  Ayling,  and  his  perspir- 
ing followers  murmured  threatening  applause. 

The  guide,  now  in  his  own  territory, 
selected  the  muddiest  opening  and  plunged 
down  it.  For  two  hundred  yards  or  so  he 
continued  serenely  upon  his  way,  with  the 
air  of  one  exhibiting  the  metropolis  to  a 
party  of  country  cousins.  He  passed  numer- 
ous turnings.  Then,  once  or  twice,  he  paused 
irresolutely;  then  moved  on.  Finally  he 
halted,  and  proceeded  to  climb  out  of  the 
trench. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  demanded  Ayling 
suspiciously. 

"We  got  to  cut  across  the  open  'ere,  sir," 
said  the  youth  glibly.  "Trench  don't  go  no 
farther.  Keep  as  low  as  you  can. ' ' 

With  resigned  grunts  the  weary  pilgrims 
hoisted  themselves  and  their  numerous  bur- 
dens out  of  their  slimy  thoroughfare,  and 
followed  their  conductor  through  the  long 
grass  in  single  file,  feeling  painfully  con- 
spicuous against  the  whitening  sky.  Pres- 
ently they  discovered,  and  descended  into, 
another  trench  —  all  but  the  man  with  the 
tripod,  who  descended  into  it  before  he  dis- 
covered it  —  and  proceeded  upon  their  dolor- 
ous way.  Once  more  the  guide,  who  had  been 
refreshingly  but  ominously  silent  for  some 
time,  paused  irresolutely. 

"Look  here,  my  man,"  said  Ayling,  "do 
you,  or  do  you  not,  know  where  you  are?" 

The  paragon  replied  hesitatingly :  — 


244    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"Well,  sir,  if  we'd  come  by  the  way  I " 

Ayling  took  a  deep  breath,  and  though 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  formidable  com- 
petitors, was  about  to  make  the  best  of  an 
officer's  vocabulary,  when  a  kilted  figure 
loomed  out  of  the  darkness. 

"Hallo!    Who  are  you?"  inquired  Ayling. 

"This  iss  the  Camerons'  trenches,  sirr," 
replied  a  polite  West  Highland  voice.  ' i  What 
trenches  wass  you  seeking!" 

Ayling  told  him. 

"They  are  behind  you,  sirr." 

"I  was  just  goin'  to  say,  sir,"  chanted  the 
guide,  making  one  last  effort  to  redeem  his 
prestige,  "as  'ow " 

'  '  Party, ' '  commanded  Ayling, i  i  about  turn ! ' ' 

Having  received  details  of  the  route  from 
the  friendly  Cameron,  he  scrambled  out  of 
the  trench  and  crawled  along  to  what  was 
now  the  head  of  the  procession.  A  plaintive 
voice  followed  him. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  where  shall  7  go  now?" 

Ayling  answered  the  question  explicitly, 
and  moved  off,  feeling  much  better.  The 
late  conductor  of  the  party  trailed  discon- 
solately in  the  rear. 

"I  should  like  to  know  wot  I'm  'ere  for," 
he  murmured  indignantly. 

He  got  his  answer,  like  a  lightning-flash. 

"For  tae  carry  this/'  said  the  man  with 
the  tripod,  turning  round.  "Here,  caatch!" 


THE   FKONT   OF   THE   FKONT        245 


The  day's  work  in  trenches  begins  about 
nine  o'clock  the  night  before.  Darkness 
having  fallen,  various  parties  steal  out 
into  the  no-man's-land  beyond  the  parapet. 
There  are  numerous  things  to  be  done. 
The  barbed  wire  has  been  broken  up  by 
shrapnel,  and  must  be  repaired.  The  whole 
position  in  front  of  the  wire  must  be 
patrolled,  to  prevent  the  enemy  from  creep- 
ing forward  in  the  dark.  The  corn  has 
grown  to  an  uncomfortable  height  in  places, 
so  a  fatigue  party  is  told  off  to  cut  it  — 
surely  the  strangest  species  of  harvesting 
that  the  annals  of  agriculture  can  record. 
On  the  left  front  the  muffled  clinking  of 
picks  and  shovels  announces  that  a  "sap" 
is  in  course  of  construction:  those  incor- 
rigible night-birds,  the  Royal  Engineers,  are 
making  it  for  the  machine-gunners,  who  in 
the  fulness  of  time  will  convey  their  voluble 
weapon  to  its  forward  extremity,  and 
" loose  off  a  belt  or  two"  in  the  direction  of  a 
rather  dangerous  hollow  midway  between  the 
trenches,  from  which  of  late  mysterious 
sounds  of  digging  and  guttural  talking  have 
been  detected  by  the  officer  who  lies  in  the 
listening-post,  in  front  of  our  barbed-wire 
entanglement,  drawing  secrets  from  the 
bowels  of  the  earth  by  means  of  a  micro- 
phone. 


246    THE    FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

BeMnd  the  firing  trench  even  greater 
activity  prevails.  Damage  done  to  the  para- 
pet by  shell  fire  is  being  repaired.  Posi- 
tions and  emplacements  are  being  constantly 
improved,  communication  trenches  widened 
or  made  more  secure.  Down  these  trenches 
fatigue  parties  are  filing,  to  draw  rations 
and  water  and  ammunition  from  the  lim- 
bered waggons  which  are  waiting  in  the 
shadow  of  a  wood,  perhaps  a  mile  back.  It 
is  at  this  hour,  too,  that  the  wounded,  who 
have  been  lying  pathetically  cheerful  and 
patient  in  the  dressing-station  in  the  reserve 
trench,  are  smuggled  to  the  Field  Ambulance 

—  probably  to  find  themselves  safe  in  a  Lon- 
don hospital  within  twenty-four  hours.   Lastly, 
under  the  kindly  cloak  of  night,  we  bury  our 
dead. 

Meanwhile,  within  various  stifling  dug- 
outs, in  the  firing  trench  or  support-trench, 
overheated  company  commanders  are  dictat- 
ing reports  or  filling  in  returns.  (Even  now 
the  Bound  Game  Department  is  not  entirely 
shaken  off.)  There  is  the  casualty  return, 
and  a  report  on  the  doings  of  the  enemy,  and 
another  report  of  one's  own  doings,  and  a 
report  on  the  direction  of  the  wind,  and  so 
on.  Then  there  are  various  indents  to  fill  up 

—  scrawled  on  a  wobbly  writing-block  with  a 
blunt  indelible  pencil  by  the  light  of  a  gutter- 
ing candle  —  for  ammunition,  and  sandbags, 
and  revetting  material. 

All  this  literature  has  to  be  sent  to  Bat- 


THE    FKONT    OF   THE    FKONT        247 

talion  Headquarters  by  one  A.M.,  either  by 
orderly  or  telephone.  There  it  is  collated 
and  condensed,  and  forwarded  to  the  Brigade, 
which  submits  it  to  the  same  process  and 
sends  it  on,  to  be  served  up  piping  hot  and 
easily  digestible  at  the  breakfast-table  of  the 
Division,  five  miles  away,  at  eight  o'clock. 

You  must  not  imagine,  however,  that  all 
this  night-work  is  performed  in  gross  dark- 
ness. On  the  contrary.  There  is  abundance 
of  illumination;  and  by  a  pretty  thought, 
each  side  illuminates  the  other.  We  per- 
form our  nocturnal  tasks,  in  front  of  and 
behind  the  firing  trench,  amid  a  perfect  hail 
of  star-shells  and  magnesium  lights,  topped 
up  at  times  by  a  searchlight  —  all  supplied 
by  our  obliging  friend  the  Hun.  We,  on  our 
part,  do  our  best  to  return  these  graceful 
compliments. 

The  curious  and  uncanny  part  of  it  all  is 
that  there  is  no  firing.  During  these  brief 
hours  there  exists  an  informal  truce,  founded 
on  the  principle  of  live  and  let  live.  It  would 
be  an  easy  business  to  wipe  out  that  working- 
party,  over  there  by  the  barbed  wire,  with  a 
machine-gun.  It  would  be  child's  play  to 
shell  the  road  behind  the  enemy's  trenches, 
crowded  as  it  must  be  with  ration-waggons 
and  water-carts,  into  a  blood-stained  wilder- 
ness. But  so  long  as  each  side  confines 
itself  to  purely  defensive  and  recuperative 
work,  there  is  little  or  no  interference.  That 
slave  of  duty,  Zacchaeus,  keeps  on  pegging 


248    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 


away;  and  occasionally,  if  a  hostile  patrol 
shows  itself  too  boldly,  there  is  a  little  ex- 
uberance from  a  machine-gun;  but  on  the 
whole  there  is  silence.  After  all,  if  you  pre- 
vent your  enemy  from  drawing  his  rations, 
his  remedy  is  simple:  he  will  prevent  you 
from  drawing  yours.  Then  both  parties  will 
have  to  fight  on  empty  stomachs,  and  neither 
of  them,  tactically,  will  be  a  penny  the  better. 
So,  unless  some  elaborate  scheme  of  attack  is 
brewing,  the  early  hours  of  the  night  are 
comparatively  peaceful.  But  what  is  that 
sudden  disturbance  in  the  front-line  trench? 
A  British  rifle  rings  out,  then  another,  and 
another,  until  there  is  an  agitated  fusilade 
from  end  to  end  of  the  section.  Instantly 
the  sleepless  host  across  the  way  replies,  and 
for  three  minutes  or  so  a  hurricane  rages. 
The  working  parties  out  in  front  lie  flat  on 
their  faces,  cursing  patiently.  Suddenly  the 
storm  dies  away,  and  perfect  silence  reigns 
once  more.  It  was  a  false  alarm.  Some 
watchman,  deceived  by  the  whispers  of  the 
night  breeze,  or  merely  a  prey  to  nerves, 
has  discerned  a  phantom  army  approaching 
through  the  gloom,  and  has  opened  fire 
thereon.  This  often  occurs  when  troops  are 
new  to  trench-work. 

It  is  during  these  hours,  too,  that  regi- 
ments relieve  one  another  in  the  trenches. 
The  outgoing  regiment  cannot  leave  its  post 
until  the  incoming  regiment  has  "  taken 
over."  Consequently  you  have,  for  a  brief 


THE   FKONT   OF   THE   FBONT        249 

space,  two  thousand  troops  packed  into  a 
trench  calculated  to  hold  one  thousand. 
Then  it  is  that  strong  men  swear  themselves 
faint,  and  the  Eugby  football  player  has 
reason  to  be  thankful  for  his  previous  train- 
ing in  the  art  of  "getting  through  the  scrum." 
However  perfect  your  organisation  may  be, 
congestion  is  bound  to  occur  here  and  there; 
and  it  is  no  little  consolation  to  us  to  feel, 
as  we  surge  and  sway  in  the  darkness,  that 
over  there  in  the  German  lines  a  Saxon  and 
a  Prussian  private,  irretrievably  jammed 
together  in  a  narrow  communication  trench, 
are  consigning  one  another  to  perdition  in 
just  the  same  husky  whisper  as  that  em- 
ployed by  Private  Mucklewame  and  his  "op- 
posite number"  in  the  regiment  which  has 
come  to  relieve  him. 

These  "reliefs"  take  place  every  four  or 
five  nights.  There  was  a  time,  not  so  long 
ago,  when  a  regiment  was  relieved,  not  when 
it  was  weary,  but  when  another  regiment 
could  be  found  to  replace  it.  Our  own  first 
battalion  once  remained  in  the  trenches,  un- 
relieved and  only  securing  its  supplies  with 
difficulty,  for  five  weeks  and  three  days. 
During  all  that  time  they  were  subject  to 
most  pressing  attentions  on  the  part  of  the 
Bosches,  but  they  never  lost  a  yard  of  trench. 
They  received  word  from  Headquarters  that 
to  detach  another  regiment  for  their  relief 
would  seriously  weaken  other  and  most  im- 
portant dispositions.  The  Commander-in- 


250    THE   FIEST   HUNDBED   THOUSAND 

Chief  would  therefore  be  greatly  obliged  if 
they  could  hold  on.    So  they  held  on. 

At  last  they  came  out,  and  staggered  back 
to  billets.  Their  old  quarters,  naturally,  had 
long  been  appropriated  by  other  troops,  and 
the  officers  had  some  difficulty  in  recovering 
their  kits. 

"I  don't  mind  being  kept  in  trenches  for 
several  weeks,"  remarked  their  commander 
to  the  staff  officer  who  received  him  when 
he  reported,  "and  I  can  put  up  with  losing 
my  sleeping-bag;  but  I  do  object  to  having 
my  last  box  of  cigars  looted  by  the  black- 
guards who  took  over  our  billets  I" 

The  staff  officer  expressed  sympathy,  and 
the  subject  dropped.  But  not  many  days 
later,  while  the  battalion  were  still  resting, 
their  commander  was  roused  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  from  the  profound  slumber  which 
only  the  experience  of  many  nights  of  anxious 
vigil  can  induce,  by  the  ominous  message :  — 

"An  orderly  to  see  you,  from  General  Head- 
quarters, sir!" 

The  colonel  rolled  stoically  out  of  bed,  and 
commanded  that  the  orderly  should  be  brought 
before  him. 

The  man  entered,  carrying,  not  a  despatch, 
but  a  package,  which  he  proffered  with  a 
salute. 

"With  the  Commander-in-Chief 's  compli- 
ments, sir ! "  he  announced. 

The  package  was  a  box  of  cigars ! 

But  that  was  before  the  days  of  "K(l)." 


THE   FKONT    OF   THE    FEONT        251 

But  the  night  is  wearing  on.  It  is  half- 
past  one  —  time  to  knock  off  work.  Tired 
men,  returning  from  ration-drawing  or  sap- 
digging,  throw  themselves  down  and  fall  dead 
asleep  in  a  moment.  Only  the  sentries,  with 
their  elbows  on  the  parapet,  maintain  their 
sleepless  watch.  From  behind  the  enemy's 
lines  comes  a  deep  boom  —  then  another.  The 
big  guns  are  waking  up  again,  and  have 
decided  to  commence  their  day's  work  by 
speeding  our  empty  ration-waggons  upon 
their  homeward  way.  Let  them!  So  long 
as  they  refrain  from  practising  direct  hits  on 
our  front-line  parapet,  and  disturbing  our 
brief  and  hardly-earned  repose,  they  may  fire 
where  they  please.  The  ration  train  is  well 
able  to  look  after  itself. 

"A  whiff  o'  shrapnel  will  dae  nae  harrm  to 
thae  strawberry- jam  pinchers!"  observes 
Private  Tosh  bitterly,  rolling  into  his  dug- 
out. By  this  opprobrious  term  he  designates 
that  distinguished  body  of  men,  the  Army 
Service  Corps.  A  prolonged  diet  of  plum- 
and-apple  jam  has  implanted  in  the  breasts 
of  the  men  in  the  trenches  certain  dark  and 
unworthy  suspicions  concerning  the  entire 
altruism  of  those  responsible  for  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  Army's  rations. 

It  is  close  on  daybreak,  and  the  customary 
whispered  order  runs  down  the  stertorous 
trench :  — 

"Stand  to  anas!" 


252    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

Straightway  the  parapets  are  lined  with 
armed  men;  the  waterproof  sheets  which 
have  been  protecting  the  machine-guns  from 
the  dews  of  night  are  cast  off;  and  we  stand 
straining  our  eyes  into  the  whitening  darkness. 

This  is  the  favourite  hour  for  attack.  At 
any  moment  the  guns  may  open  fire  upon  our 
parapet,  or  a  solid  wall  of  grey-clad  figures 
rise  from  that  strip  of  corn-land  less  than  a 
hundred  yards  away,  and  descend  upon  us. 
Well,  we  are  ready  for  them.  Just  by  way 
of  signalising  the  fact,  there  goes  out  a  ragged 
volley  of  rifle  fire,  and  a  machine-gun  rips 
off  half  a  dozen  bursts  into  the  standing 
corn.  But  apparently  there  is  nothing  doing 
this  morning.  The  day  grows  brighter,  but 
there  is  no  movement  upon  thd  part  of 
Brother  Bosche. 

But  —  what  is  that  light  haze  hanging  over 
the  enemy's  trenches?  It  is  slight,  almost 
impalpable,  but  it  appears  to  be  drifting  to- 
wards us.  Can  it  be 1 

Next  moment  every  man  is  hurriedly  pull- 
ing his  gas  helmet  over  his  head,  while  Lieu- 
tenant Waddell  beats  a  frenzied  tocsin  upon 
the  instrument  provided  for  the  purpose  — 
to  wit,  an  empty  eighteen-pounder  shell,  which, 
suspended  from  a  bayonet  stuck  into  the 
parados  (or  back  wall)  of  the  trench,  makes 
a  most  efficient  alarm-gong.  The  sound  is 
repeated  all  along  the  trench,  and  in  two  min- 
utes every  man  is  in  his  place,  cowled  like 
a  member  of  the  Holy  Inquisition,  glaring 


THE   FRONT   OF   THE   FRONT        253 

through  an  eye-piece  of  mica,  and  firing  madly 
into  the  approaching  wall  of  vapour. 

But  the  wall  approaches  very  slowly  —  in 
fact,  it  almost  stands  still  —  and  finally,  as 
the  rising  sun  disentangles  itself  from  a  pink 
horizon  and  climbs  into  the  sky,  it  begins  to 
disappear.  In  half  an  hour  nothing  is  left, 
and  we  take  off  our  helmets,  sniffing  the  morn- 
ing air  dubiously.  But  all  we  smell  is  the 
old  mixture  —  corpses  and  chloride  of  lime. 

The  incident,  however,  was  duly  recorded 
by  Major  Kemp  in  his  report  of  the  day's 
events,  as  follows:  — 

4.7  A.M.  —  Gas  alarm,  false.  Due  either  to 
morning  mist,  or  the  fact  that  enemy  found 
breeze  insufficient,  and  discontinued  their 
attempt. 

"Still,  I'm  not  sure,"  he  continued,  slapping 
his  bald  head  with  a  bandana  handkerchief, 
'  '  that  a  whiff  of  chlorine  or  bromine  wouldn  't 
do  these  trenches  a  considerable  amount  of 
good.  It  would  tone  down  some  of  the  de- 
ceased a  bit,  and  wipe  out  these  infernal  flies. 
Waddell,  if  I  give  you  a  shilling,  will  you 
take  it  over  to  the  German  trenches  and  ask 
them  to  drop  it  into  the  meter?" 

"I  do  not  think,  sir,"  replied  the  literal 
Waddell,  "that  an  English  shilling  would  fit 
a  German  meter.  Probably  a  mark  would  be 
required,  and  I  have  only  a  franc.  Besides, 
sir,  do  you  think  that " 

* '  Surgical  operation  at  seven-thirty,  sharp ! ' ' 
intimated  the  major  to  the  medical  officer, 


254    THE    FIEST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 


who  entered  the  dug-out  at  that  moment. 
"For  our  friend  here"  —  indicating  the  be- 
wildered Waddell.  "Sydney  Smith's  pre- 
scription! Now,  what  about  breakfast?" 

About  nine  o'clock  the  enemy  indulges  in 
what  is  usually  described,  most  disrespect- 
fully, as  "a  little  morning  hate"  —  in  other 
words,  a  bombardment.  Beginning  with  a 
Jiors  d'ceuvre  of  shrapnel  along  the  reserve 
trench  —  much  to  the  discomfort  of  Head- 
quarters, who  are  shaving  —  he  proceeds  to 
"search"  a  tract  of  woodland  in  our  im- 
mediate rear,  his  quarry  being  a  battery  of 
motor  machine-guns,  which  has  wisely  de- 
camped some  hours  previously.  Then,  after 
scientifically  "traversing"  our  second  line, 
which  has  rashly  advertised  its  position  and 
range  by  cooking  its  breakfast  over  a  smoky 
fire,  he  brings  the  display  to  a  superfluous 
conclusion  by  dropping  six  "Black  Marias" 
into  the  deserted  ruins  of  a  village  not  far 
behind  us.  After  that  comes  silence;  and  we 
are  able,  in  our  hot,  baking  trenches,  assisted 
by  clouds  of  bluebottles,  to  get  on  with  the 
day's  work. 

This  consists  almost  entirely  in  digging. 
As  already  stated,  these  are  bad  trenches. 
The  parapet  is  none  too  strong  —  at  one  point 
it  has  been  knocked  down  for  three  days  run- 
ning—  the  communication  trenches  are  few 
and  narrow,  and  there  are  not  nearly  enough 
dug-outs.  Yesterday  three  men  were  wounded ; 


THE  FRONT  OF  THE  FRONT    255 

and  owing  to  the  impossibility  of  carrying  a 
stretcher  along  certain  parts  of  the  trench, 
they  had  to  be  conveyed  to  the  rear  in  their 
ground-sheets  —  bumped  against  projections, 
bent  round  sharp  corners,  and  sometimes 
lifted,  perforce,  bodily  into  view  of  the  enemy. 
So  every  man  toils  with  a  will,  knowing  full 
well  that  in  a  few 'hours'  time  he  may  prove  to 
have  been  his  own  benefactor.  Only  the  sen- 
tries remain  at  the  parapets.  They  no  longer 
expose  themselves,  as  at  night,  but  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  laws  of  optical  reflection,  as 
exemplified  by  the  trench  periscope.  (This, 
in  spite  of  its  grand  title,  is  nothing  but  a  tiny 
mirror  clipped  on  to  a  bayonet.) 

At  half -past  twelve  comes  dinner  —  bully- 
beef,  with  biscuit  and  jam  —  after  which  each 
tired  man,  coiling  himself  up  in  the  trench, 
or  crawling  underground,  according  to  the 
accommodation  at  his  disposal,  drops  off  into 
instant  and  heavy  slumber.  The  hours  from 
two  till  five  in  the  afternoon  are  usually  the 
most  uneventful  of  the  twenty-four,  and  are 
therefore  devoted  to  hardly-earned  repose. 

But  there  is  to  be  little  peace  this  after- 
noon. About  half-past  three,  Bobby  Little, 
immersed  in  pleasant  dreams  —  dreams  of 
cool  shades  and  dainty  companionship  —  is 
brought  suddenly  to  the  surface  of  things  by  — 

'  '  Whoo-oo-oo-oo-UMP ! ' ' 

—  followed  by  a  heavy  thud  upon  the  roof 
of  his  dug-out.  Earth  and  small  stones  de- 
scend in  a  shower  upon  him. 


256    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

" Dirty  dogs!"  he  comments,  looking  at  his 
watch.  Then  he  puts  his  head  out  of  the 
dug-out. 

"Lie  close,  you  men!"  he  cries.  " There's 
more  of  this  coming.  Any  casualties?" 

The  answer  to  the  question  is  obscured  by 
another  burst  of  shrapnel,  which  explodes  a 
few  yards  short  of  the  parapet,  and  showers 
bullets  and  fragments  of  shell  into  the  trench. 
A  third  and  a  fourth  follow.  Then  comes  a 
pause.  A  message  is  passed  down  for  the 
stretcher-bearers.  Things  are  growing  seri- 
ous. Five  minutes  later  Bobby,  having  des- 
patched his  wounded  to  the  dressing- station, 
proceeds  with  all  haste  to  Captain  Blaikie's 
dug-out. 

"How  many,  Bobby  I" 

"Six  wounded.  Two  of  them  won't  last  as 
far  as  the  rear,  I'm  afraid,  sir." 

Captain  Blaikie  looks  grave. 

"Better  ring  up  the  Gunners,  I  think. 
Where  are  the  shells  coming  from?" 

"That  wood  on  our  left  front,  I  think." 

"That's  P  27.    Telephone  orderly,  there?" 

A  figure  appears  in  the  doorway. 

"Yes,  sirr." 

"Eing  up  Major  Cavanagh,  and  say  that 
H  21  is  being  shelled  from  P  27.  Eetali- 
ate!" 

"Verra  good,  sirr." 

The  telephone  orderly  disappears,  to  return 
in  five  minutes. 

"Major  Cavanagh 's  compliments,  sirr,  and 


THE   FRONT   OF   THE   FRONT        257 

he  is  coming  up  himself  for  tae  observe  from 
the  firing  trench. ' ' 

' i Good  egg!"  observes  Captain  Blaikie. 
"Now  we  shall  see  some  shooting,  Bobby!" 

Presently  the  Gunner  major  arrives,  accom- 
panied by  an  orderly,  who  pays  out  wire  as 
he  goes.  The  major  adjusts  his  periscope, 
while  the  orderly  thrusts  a  metal  peg  into 
the  ground  and  fits  a  telephone  receiver  to 
his  head. 

"Number  one  gun!"  chants  the  major, 
peering  into  his  periscope;  "three-five-one- 
nothing —  lyddite  —  fourth  charge!" 

These  mystic  observations  are  repeated  into 
the  telephone  by  the  Cockney  orderly,  in  a 
confidential  undertone. 

"Eeport  when  ready!"  continues  the 
major. 

"Eeport  when  ready!"  echoes  the  orderly. 
Then  —  "Number  one  gun  ready,  sir!" 

"Fire!" 

"Fire!"  Then,  politely  — "Number  one 
has  fired,  sir." 

The  major  stiffens  to  his  periscope,  and 
Bobby  Little,  deeply  interested,  wonders 
what  has  become  of  the  report  of  the  gun. 
He  forgets  that  sound  does  not  travel  much 
faster  than  a  thousand  feet  a  second,  and  that 
the  guns  are  a  mile  and  a  half  back.  Pres- 
ently, however,  there  is  a  distant  boom. 
Almost  simultaneously  the  lyddite  shell 
passes  overhead  with  a  scream.  Bobby, 
having  no  periscope,  cannot  see  the  actual 


258    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

result  of  the  shot,  though  he  tempts  Provi- 
dence (and  Zacchseus)  by  peering  over  the 
top  of  the  parapet. 

"  Number  one,  two-nothing  minutes  more 
right, "  commands  the  major.  "Same  range 
and  charge. ' ' 

Once  more  the  orderly  goes  through  his 
ritual,  and  presently  another  shell  screams 
overhead. 

Again  the  major  observes  the  result. 

* '  Eepeat ! ' '  he  says.  ' '  Nothing-five  seconds 
more  right." 

This  time  he  is  satisfied. 

"Parallel  lines  on  number  one,"  he  com- 
mands crisply.  "One  round  battery  fire  — 
twenty  seconds!" 

For  the  last  time  the  order  is  passed  down 
the  wire,  and  the  major  hands  his  periscope 
to  the  ever-grateful  Bobby,  who  has  hardly 
got  his  eyes  to  the  glass  when  the  round  of 
battery  fire  commences.  One  —  two  —  three 
—  four  —  the  avenging  shells  go  shrieking  on 
their  way,  at  intervals  of  twenty  seconds. 
There  are  four  muffled  thuds,  and  four  great 
columns  of  earth  and  debris  spring  up  before 
the  wood.  Answer  comes  there  none.  The 
offending  battery  has  prudently  effaced  itself. 

"Cease  fire!"  says  the  major,  "and  regis- 
ter ! ' '  Then  he  turns  to  Captain  Blaikie. 

"That'll  settle  them  for  a  bit,"  he  observes. 
"By  the  way,  had  any  more  trouble  with 
Minnie?" 

"We  had  Hades  from  her  yesterday,"  re- 


THE   FRONT   OF   THE   FRONT        259 

plies  Blaikie,  in  answer  to  this  extremely 
personal  question.  '  *  She  started  at  a  quarter- 
past  five  in  the  morning,  and  went  on  till 
about  ten." 

(Perhaps,  at  this  point,  it  would  be  as  well 
to  introduce  Minnie  a  little  more  formally. 
She  is  the  most  unpleasant  of  her  sex,  and  her 
full  name  is  Minenwerfer,  or  German  trench- 
mortar.  She  resides,  spasmodically,  in  Unter 
den  Linden.  Her  extreme  range  is  about  two 
hundred  yards,  so  she  confines  her  attentions 
to  front-line  trenches.  Her  modus  operandi 
is  to  discharge  a  large  cylindrical  bomb  into 
the  air.  The  bomb,  which  is  about  fifteen 
inches  long  and  some  eight  inches  in  diam- 
eter, describes  a  leisurely  parabola,  perform- 
ing grotesque  somersaults  on  the  way,  and 
finally  falls  with  a  soft  thud  into  the  trench, 
or  against  the  parapet.  There,  after  an  in- 
terval of  ten  seconds,  Minnie's  offspring  ex- 
plodes; and  as  she  contains  about  thirty 
pounds  of  dynamite,  no  dug-out  or  parapet 
can  stand  against  her.) 

"Did  she  do  much  damage?"  inquires  the 
Gunner. 

"  Killed  two  men  and  buried  another.  They 
were  in  a  dug-out. ' ' 

The  Gunner  shakes  his  head. 

"No  good  taking  cover  against  Minnie," 
he  says.  "The  only  way  is  to  come  out  into 
the  open  trench,  and  dodge  her." 

"So  we  found,"  replies  Blaikie.  "But 
they  pulled  our  legs  badly  the  first  time. 


260    THE   FIKST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

They  started  off  with  three  'whizz-bangs'  " 

—  a  whizz-bang  is   a  particularly   offensive 
form    of    shell   which   bursts   two    or   three 
times  over,  like  a  Chinese  cracker  —  "so  we 
all  took  cover  and  lay  low.    The  consequence 
was  that  Minnie  was  able  to  send  her  little 
contribution   along   unobserved.      The   filthy 
thing  fell  short  of  the  trench,  and  exploded 
just  as  we  were  all  getting  up  again.     It 
smashed  up  three  or  four  yards  of  parapet, 
and  scuppered  the  three  poor  chaps  I  men- 
tioned. ' ' 

"Have  you  located  her?" 

"Yes.  Just  behind  that  stunted  willow,  on 
our  left  front.  I  fancy  they  bring  her  along 
there  to  do  her  bit,  and  then  trot  her  back  to 
billets,  out  of  harm's  way.  She  is  their  two 
o'clock  turn  —  two  A.M.  and  two  P.M." 

' '  Two  o  'clock  turn  —  h  'm ! "  says  the  Gunner 
major  meditatively.  "What  about  our  chip- 
ping in  with  a  one-fifty-five  turn  —  half  a 
dozen  H  E  shells  into  Minnie's  dressing-room 

—  eh?    I  must  think  this  over." 

"Do!"  said  Blaikie  cordially.  "Minnie  is 
Willie's  Worst  Werfer,  and  the  sooner  she  is 
put  out  of  action  the  better  for  all  of  us. 
To-day,  for  some  reason,  she  failed  to  appear, 
but  previous  to  that  she  has  not  failed  for  five 
mornings  in  succession  to  batter  down  the 
same  bit  of  our  parapet." 

"Where's  that?"  asks  the  major,  getting 
out  a  trench-map. 

"P   7  —  a   most   unhealthy   spot.     Minnie 


THE   FRONT   OF   THE   FRONT 

pushes  it  over  about  two  every  morning. 
The  result  is  that  we  have  to  mount  guard 
over  the  breach  all  day.  We  build  every- 
thing up  again  at  night,  and  Minnie  sits 
there  as  good  as  gold,  and  never  dreams  of 
interfering.  You  can  almost  hear  her  cooing 
over  us.  Then,  as  I  say,  at  two  o'clock,  just 
as  the  working  party  comes  in  and  gets  under 
cover,  she  lets  slip  one  of  her  disgusting 
bombs,  and  undoes  the  work  of  about  four 
hours.  It  was  a  joke  at  first,  but  we  are 
getting  fed  up  now.  That's  the  worst  of  the 
Bosche.  He  starts  by  being  playful;  but  if 
not  suppressed  at  once,  he  gets  rough;  and 
that,  of  course,  spoils  all  the  harmony  of  the 
proceedings.  So  I  cordially  commend  your 
idea  of  the  one-fifty-five  turn,  sir." 

"I'll  see  what  can  be  done,"  says  the  major. 
"I  think  the  best  plan  would  be  a  couple 
of  hours'  solid  frightfulness,  from  every  bat- 
tery we  can  switch  on.  To-morrow  afternoon, 
perhaps,  but  I'll  let  you  know.  You'll  have 
to  clear  out  of  this  bit  of  trench  altogether, 
as  we  shall  shoot  pretty  low.  So  long!" 


in 


It  is  six  o'clock  next  evening,  and  peace 
reigns  over  our  trench.  This  is  the  hour 
at  which  one  usually  shells  aeroplanes  —  or 
rather,  at  which  the  Germans  shell  ours, 
for  their  own  seldom  venture  out  in  broad 


. 


262    THE   FIKST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

daylight.  But  this  evening,  although  two 
or  three  are  up  in  the  blue,  buzzing  inquisi- 
tively over  the  enemy's  lines,  their  attendant 
escort  of  white  shrapnel  puffs  is  entirely 
lacking.  Far  away  behind  the  German  lines 
a  house  is  burning  fiercely. 

"The  Hun  is  a  bit  piano  to-night,"  observes 
Captain  Blaikie,  attacking  his  tea. 

"The  Hun  has  been  rather  firmly  handled 
this  afternoon,"  replies  Captain  Wagstaffe. 
"I  think  he  has  had  an  eye-opener.  There 
are  no  flies  on  our  Divisional  Artillery." 

Bobby  Little  heaved  a  contented  sigh.  For 
two  hours  that  afternoon  he  had  sat,  half- 
deafened,  while  six-inch  shells  skimmed  the 
parapet  in  both  directions,  a  few  feet  above 
his  head.  The  Gunner  major  had  been  as 
good  as  his  word.  Punctually  at  one-fifty- 
five  "Minnie's"  two  o'clock  turn  had  been 
anticipated  by  a  round  of  high-explosive 
shells  directed  into  her  suspected  place  of 
residence.  What  the  actual  result  had  been 
nobody  knew,  but  Minnie  had  made  no  attempt 
to  raise  her  voice  since.  Thereafter  the 
German  front-line  trenches  had  been  "plas- 
tered" from  end  to  end,  while  the  trenches 
farther  back  were  attended  to  with  methodical 
thoroughness.  The  German  guns  had  replie^ 
vigorously,  but  directing  only  a  passing  fire 
at  the  trenches,  had  devoted  their  efforts 
chiefly  to  the  silencing  of  the  British  artil- 
lery. In  this  enterprise  they  had  been 
remarkably  unsuccessful. 


THE  FEONT  OF  THE  FEONT    263 

"Any  casualties?"  asked  Blaikie. 

"None  here,"  replied  Wagstaffe.  "There 
may  be  some  back  in  the  support  trenches." 

"We  might  telephone  and  inquire." 

"No  good  at  present.  The  wires  are  all 
cut  to  pieces.  The  signallers  are  repairing 
them  now." 

"/  was  nearly  a  casualty,"  confessed  Bobby 
modestly. 

"How?" 

"That  first  shell  of  ours  nearly  knocked 
my  head  off!  I  was  standing  up  at  the 
time,  and  it  rather  took  me  by  surprise.  It 
just  cleared  the  parados.  In  fact,  it  kicked 
a  lot  of  gravel  into  the  back  of  my  neck." 

"Most  people  get  it  in  the  neck  here, 
sooner  or  later,"  remarked  Captain  Blaikie 
sententiously.  "Personally,  I  don't  much 
mind  being  killed,  but  I  do  bar  being  buried 
alive.  That  is  why  I  dislike  Minnie  so." 
He  rose,  and  stretched  himself.  "Heigho! 
I  suppose  it's  about  time  we  detailed  patrols 
and  working  parties  for  to-night.  What  a 
lovely  sky !  A  truly  peaceful  atmosphere  — 
what?  It  gives  one  a  sort  of  Sunday-evening 
feeling,  somehow." 

"May  I  suggest  an  explanation?"  said 
Wagstaffe. 

"By  all  means." 

"It  is  Sunday  evening!" 

Captain  Blaikie  whistled  gently,  and  said  — 

"By  Jove,  so  it  is."  Then,  after  a  pause: 
"This  time  last  Sunday- " 


264    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Last  Sunday  had  been  an  off-day  —  a  day 
of  cloudless  summer  beauty.  Tired  men  had 
slept;  tidy  men  had  washed  their  clothes; 
restless  men  had  wandered  at  ease  about 
the  countryside,  careless  of  the  guns  which 
grumbled  everlastingly  a  few  miles  away. 
There  had  been  impromptu  Church  Parades 
for  each  denomination,  in  the  corner  of  a 
wood  which  was  part  of  the  demesne  of 
a  shell-torn  chateau. 

It  is  a  sadly  transformed  wood.  The  open 
space  before  the  chateau,  once  a  smooth 
expanse  of  tennis-lawn,  is  now  a  dusty 
picketing-ground  for  transport  mules,  desti- 
tute of  a  single  blade  of  grass.  The 
ornamental  lake  is  full  of  broken  bottles 
and  empty  jam-tins.  The  pagoda-like 
summer-house,  so  inevitable  to  French 
chateau  gardens,  is  a  quartermaster's  store. 
Half  the  trees  have  been  cut  down  for  fuel. 
Still,  the  July  sun  streams  very  pleasantly 
through  the  remainder,  and  the  Psalms  of 
David  float  up  from  beneath  their  shade 
quite  as  sweetly  as  they  usually  do  from 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  precentor's  desk  in 
the  kirk  at  home  —  perhaps  sweeter. 

The  wood  itself  is  a  point  d'appui,  or 
fortified  post.  One  has  to  take  precautions, 
even  two  or  three  miles  behind  the  main 
firing  line.  A  series  of  trenches  zigzags  in 
and  out  among  the  trees,  and  barbed  wire 
is  interlaced  with  the  undergrowth.  In  the 
farthermost  corner  lies  an  improvised 


THE   FEONT   OF   THE   FKONT        265 

cemetery.  Some  of  the  inscriptions  on  the 
little  wooden  crosses  are  only  three  days 
old.  Merely  to  read  a  few  of  these  touches 
the  imagination  and  stirs  the  blood.  Here 
you  may  see  the  names  of  English  Tommies 
and  Highland  Jocks,  side  by  side  with  their 
Canadian  kith  and  kin.  A  little  apart  lie 
more  graves,  surmounted  by  epitaphs  written 
in  strange  characters,  such  as  few  white  men 
can  read.  These  are  the  Indian  troops. 
There  they  lie,  side  by  side  —  the  mute 
wastage  of  war,  but  a  living  testimony, 
even  in  their  last  sleep,  to  the  breadth  and 
unity  of  the  British  Empire.  The  great, 
machine-made  Empire  of  Germany  can  show 
no  such  graves:  when  her  soldiers  die,  they 
sleep  alone. 

The  Church  of  England  service  had  come 
last  of  all.  Late  in  the  afternoon  a  youthful 
and  red-faced  chaplain  had  arrived  on  a 
bicycle,  to  find  a  party  of  officers  and  men 
lying  in  the  shade  of  a  broad  oak  waiting 
for  him.  (They  were  a  small  party :  naturally, 
the  great  majority  of  the  regiment  are  what 
the  identity-discs  call  "Pres"  or  "E.C.") 

" Sorry  to  be  late,  sir,"  he  said  to  the 
senior  officer,  saluting.  "This  is  my  sixth 
sh  —  service  to-day,  and  I  have  come  seven 
miles  for  it." 

He  mopped  his  brow  cheerfully ;  and  having 
produced  innumerable  hymn-books  from  a 
saddle-bag  and  set  his  congregation  in  array, 
read  them  the  service,  in  a  particularly  pleas- 


266    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

ing  and  well-modulated  voice.  After  that  he 
preached  a  modest  and  manly  little  sermon, 
containing  references  which  carried  Bobby 
Little,  for  one,  back  across  the  Channel  to 
other  scenes  and  other  company.  After  the 
sermon  came  a  hymn,  sung  with  great  vigour. 
Tommy  loves  singing  hymns  —  when  he  hap- 
pens to  know  and  like  the  tune. 

"I  know  you  chaps  like  hymns,"  said  the 
padre,  when  they  had  finished.  " Let's  have 
another  before  you  go.  What  do  you  want?" 

A  most  unlikely-looking  person  suggested 
6  '  Abide  with  Me."  When  it  was  over,  and  the 
party,  standing  as  rigid  as  their  own  rifles,  had 
sung  "God  Save  the  King,"  the  preacher  an- 
nounced, awkwardly — almost  apologetically — 

"If  any  of  you  would  like  to  —  er  —  com- 
municate, I  shall  be  very  glad.  May  not 
have  another  opportunity  for  some  time,  you 
know.  I  think  over  there"  —  he  indicated  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  wood,  not  far  from  the 
little  cemetery  —  "would  be  a  good  place." 

He  pronounced  the  benediction,  and  then, 
after  further  recurrence  to  his  saddle-bag, 
retired  to  his  improvised  sanctuary.  Here, 
with  a  ration-box  for  altar,  and  strands  of 
barbed  wire  for  choir-stalls,  he  made  his 
simple  preparations. 

Half  a  dozen  of  the  men,  and  all  the  officers, 
followed  him.  That  was  just  a  week  ago. 

Captain  Wagstaffe  broke  the  silence  at 
last. 


THE    FRONT   OF   THE    FRONT        267 

"Ifs  a  rotten  business,  war,"  he  said  pen- 
sively— -"when  you  come  to  think  of  it. 
Hallo,  there  goes  the  first  star-shell!  Come 
along,  Bobby !" 

Dusk  had  fallen.  From  the  German  trenches 
a  thin  luminous  thread  stole  up  into  the 
darkening  sky,  leaned  over,  drooped,  and 
burst  into  dazzling  brilliance  over  the  British 
parapet.  Simultaneously  a  desultory  rifle 
fire  crackled  down  the  lines.  The  night's 
work  had  begun. 


XIX 

THE  TEIVIAL  EOTJND 

We  have  been  occupying  trenches,  off  and 
on,  for  a  matter  of  two  months,  and  have 
settled  down  to  an  nnexhilarating  but  salutary 
routine.  Each  dawn  we  " stand  to  arms,"  and 
peer  morosely  over  the  parapet,  watching  the 
grey  grass  turn  slowly  to  green,  while  snipers' 
bullets  buzz  over  our  heads.  Each  forenoon 
we  cleanse  our  dew-rusted  weapons,  and  build 
up  with  sandbags  what  the  persevering 
Teuton  has  thrown  down.  Each  afternoon 
we  creep  unostentatiously  into  subterranean 
burrows,  while  our  respective  gunners,  from  a 
safe  position  in  the  rear,  indulge  in  what  they 
humorously  describe  as  "an  artillery  duel." 
The  humour  arises  from  the  fact  that  they 
fire,  not  at  one  another,  but  at  us.  It  is  as 
if  two  big  boys,  having  declared  a  vendetta, 
were  to  assuage  their  hatred  and  satisfy  their 
honour  by  going  out  every  afternoon  and 
throwing  stones  at  one  another 's  little  brothers. 
Each  evening  we  go  on  sentry  duty;  or  go 
out  with  patrols,  or  working  parties,  or  ration 


THE    TRIVIAL   ROUND  269 

parties.  Our  losses  in  killed  and  wounded 
are  not  heavy,  but  they  are  regular.  We 
would  not  grudge  the  lives  thus  spent  if  only 
we  could  advance,  even  a  little.  But  there  is 
nothing  doing.  Sometimes  a  trench  is  rushed 
here,  or  recaptured  there,  but  the  net  result  is 
—  stalemate. 

The  campaign  upon  which  we  find  ourselves 
at  present  embarked  offers  few  opportunities 
for  brilliancy.  One  wonders  how  Napoleon 
would  have  handled  it.  His  favourite  device, 
we  remember,  was  to  dash  rapidly  about  the 
chessboard,  insert  himself  between  two  hostile 
armies,  and  defeat  them  severally.  But  how 
can  you  insert  yourself  between  two  armies 
when  you  are  faced  by  only  one  army  —  an 
army  stretching  from  Ostend  to  the  Alpsf 

One  of  the  first  elements  of  successful 
strategy  is  surprise.  In  the  old  days,  a  general 
of  genius  could  outflank  his  foe  by  a  forced 
march,  or  lay  some  ingenious  trap  or  ambush. 
But  how  can  you  outflank  a  foe  who  has  no 
flanks?  How  can  you  lay  an  ambush  for  the 
modern  Intelligence  Department,  with  its 
aeroplane  reconnaissance  and  telephonic  ner- 
vous system?  Do  you  mass  half  a  million 
men  at  a  chosen  point  in  the  enemy's  line? 
Straightway  the  enemy  knows  all  about  it, 
and  does  likewise.  Each  morning  General 
Headquarters  of  each  side  finds  upon  its 
breakfast-table  a  concise  summary  of  the 
movements  of  all  hostile  troops,  the  disposi- 
tion of  railway  rolling-stock  —  yea,  even  aero- 


270    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

plane  photographs  of  it  all.  What  could 
Napoleon  himself  have  done  under  the  cir- 
cumstances? One  is  inclined  to  suspect  that 
that  volcanic  megalomaniac  would  have  per- 
ished of  spontaneous  combustion  of  the  brain. 

However,  trench  life  has  its  alleviations. 
There  is  The  Day's  Work,  for  instance.  Each 
of  us  has  his  own  particular  ' '  stunt, ' '  in  which 
he  takes  that  personal  and  rather  egotistical 
pride  which  only  increasing  proficiency  can 
bestow. 

The  happiest  —  or  at  least,  the  busiest  — 
people  just  now  are  the  ' '  Specialists. ' '  If  you 
are  engaged  in  ordinary  Company  work,  your 
energies  are  limited  to  keeping  watch,  dodging 
shells,  and  improving  trenches.  But  if  you 
are  what  is  invidiously  termed  an  " employed" 
man,  life  is  full  of  variety. 

Do  you  observe  that  young  officer  sitting 
on  a  ration-box  at  his  dug-out  door,  with  his 
head  tied  up  in  a  bandage?  That  is  Second 
Lieutenant  Lochgair,  whom  I  hope  to  make 
better  known  to  you  in  time.  He  is  a  chief- 
tain of  high  renown  in  his  own  inaccessible 
but  extensive  fastness;  but  out  here,  where 
every  man  stands  on  his  own  legs,  and  not 
his  grandfather's,  he  is  known  simply  as 
"Othello."  This  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
Major  Kemp  once  likened  him  to  the  earnest 
young  actor  of  tradition,  who  blacked  himself 
all  over  to  ensure  proficiency  in  the  playing 
of  that  part.  For  he  is  above  all  things  an 


THE   TRIVIAL   SOUND  271 

enthusiast  in  Ms  profession.  Last  night  he 
volunteered  to  go  out  and  "listen"  for  a 
suspected  mine  some  fifty  yards  from  the 
German  trenches.  He  set  out  as  soon  as 
darkness  fell,  taking  with  him  a  biscuit-tin 
full  of  water.  A  circular  from  Headquarters 
—  one  of  those  circulars  which  no  one  but 
Othello  would  have  treated  with  proper  rev- 
erence—  had  suggested  this  device.  The 
idea  was  that,  since  liquids  convey  sound 
better  than  air,  the  listener  should  place  his 
tin  of  water  on  the  ground,  lie  down  beside 
it,  immerse  one  ear  therein,  and  so  draw 
secrets  from  the  earth.  Othello  failed  to 
locate  the  mine,  but  kept  his  head  in  the 
biscuit-tin  long  enough  to  contract  a  severe 
attack  of  earache. 

But  he  is  not  discouraged.  At  present  he 
is  meditating  a  design  for  painting  himself 
grass-green  and  climbing  a  tree  —  thence  to 
take  a  comprehensive  and  unobserved  survey 
of  the  enemy's  dispositions.  He  will  do  it, 
too,  if  he  gets  a  chance ! 

The  machine-gunners,  also,  contrive  $0 
chase  monotony  by  methods  of  their  own. 
Listen  to  Ayling,  concocting  his  diurnal 
scheme  of  frightfulness  with  a  colleague. 
Unrolled  upon  his  knee  is  a  large-scale 
map. 

"I  think  we  might  touch  up  those  cross-, 
roads  to-night,"  he  says,  laying  the  point  of 
his  dividers  upon  a  spot  situated  some  hun- 
dreds of  yards  in  rear  of  the  German  trenches. 


272    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 


"I  expect  they'll  have  lots  of  transport  there 
about  ration-time  —  eh  f ' ' 

"  Sound  scheme, "  assents  his  coadjutor,  a 
bloodthirsty  stripling  named  Ainslie.  "Got 
the  bearings  ? ' ' 

"Hand  me  that  protractor.  Seventy-one, 
nineteen,  true.  That  comes  to ' '  —  Ay  ling  per- 
forms a  mental  calculation  —  "almost  exactly 
eighty-five,  magnetic.  We'll  go  out  about 
nine,  with  two  guns,  to  the  corner  of  this 
dry  ditch  here  —  the  range  is  two  thousand 
five  hundred,  exactly"  — 

"Our  lightning  calculator!"  murmurs  his 
admiring  colleague.  "No  elastic  up  the 
sleeve,  or  anything!  All  done  by  simple 
ledger-de-mang  I  Proceed ! ' ' 

—  "And  loose  off  a  belt  or  two.  What 
say?" 

"Application  forwarded,  and  strongly  re- 
commended," announced  Ainslie.  He  ex- 
amined the  map.  "Cross-roads  —  eh?  That 
means  at  least  one  estaminet.  One  estaminet, 
with  Bosches  inside,  complete !  Think  of  our 
little  bullets  all  popping  in  through  the  open 
door,  five  hundred  a  minute!  Think  of  the 
rush  to  crawl  under  the  counter!  It  might 
be  a  Headquarters?  We  might  get  Von 
Kluck  or  Eupy  of  Bavaria,  splitting  a  half 
litre  together.  We  shall  earn  Military  Crosses 
over  this,  my  boy,"  concluded  the  imaginative 
youth.  l '  Wow,  wow ! ' ' 

"The  worst  of  indirect  fire,"  mused  the  less 
gifted  Ay  ling,  "is  that  you  never  can  tell 


THE   TRIVIAL  ROUND  273 

whether  you  have  hit  your  target  or  not. 
In  fact,  you  can't  even  tell  whether  there  was 
a  target  there  to  hit." 

"Never  mind;  we'll  chance  it,"  replied 
Ainslie.  "And  if  the  Bosche  artillery  sud- 
denly wakes  up  and  begins  retaliating  on  the 
wrong  spot  with  whizz-bangs  —  well,  we  shall 
know  we've  tickled  up  somebody,  anyhow! 
Nine  o  'clock,  you  say  I ' ' 

Here,  again,  is  a  bombing  party,  prepared 
to  steal  out  under  cover  of  night.  They  are 
in  charge  of  one  Simson,  recently  promoted 
to  Captain,  supported  by  that  hoary  fire- 
eater,  Sergeant  Carfrae.  The  party  numbers 
seven  all  told,  the  only  other  member  thereof 
with  whom  we  are  personally  acquainted 
being  Lance-Corporal  M'Snape,  the  ex-Boy 
Scout.  Every  man  wears  a  broad  canvas 
belt  full  of  pockets:  each  pocket  contains  a 
bomb. 

Simson  briefly  outlines  the  situation.  Our 
fire-trench  here  runs  round  the  angle  of  an 
orchard,  which  brings  it  uncomfortably  close  to 
the  Germans.  The  Germans  are  quite  as  un- 
comfortable about  the  fact  as  we  are  —  some 
of  us  are  rather  inclined  to  overlook  this  im- 
portant feature  of  the  case  —  and  they  have 
run  a  sap  out  towards  the  nearest  point  of 
the  Orchard  Trench  (so  our  aeroplane  ob- 
servers report),  in  order  to  supervise  our 
movements  more  closely. 

"It  may  only  be  a  listening-post,"  explains 


274    THE    FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 


Simson  to  his  bombers,  "with  one  or  two 
men  in  it.  On  the  other  hand,  they  may 
be  collecting  a  party  to  rush  us.  There  are 
some  big  shell-craters  there,  and  they  may 
be  using  one  of  them  as  a  saphead.  Any- 
how, our  orders  are  to  go  out  to-night  and 
see.  If  we  find  the  sap,  with  any  Germans 
in  it,  we  are  to  bomb  them  out  of  it,  and 
break  up  the  sap  as  far  as  possible.  Advance, 
and  follow  me. " 

The  party  steals  out.  The  night  is  very 
still,  and  a  young  and  inexperienced  moon  is 
making  a  somewhat  premature  appearance 
behind  the  Bosche  trenches.  The  ground  is 
covered  with  weedy  grass  —  disappointed  hay 
—  which  makes  silent  progress  a  fairly  simple 
matter.  The  bombers  move  forward  in  ex- 
tended order  searching  for  the  saphead.  Sim- 
son,  in  the  centre,  pauses  occasionally  to 
listen,  and  his  well-drilled  line  pauses  with 
him.  Sergeant  Carfrae  calls  stertorously 
upon  the  left.  Out  on  the  right  is  young 
M'Snape,  tingling. 

They  are  half-way  across  now,  and  the 
moon  is  marking  time  behind  a  cloud. 

Suddenly  there  steals  to  the  ears  of 
M'Snape  —  apparently  from  the  recesses  of 
the  earth  just  in  front  of  him  —  a  deep,  hollow 
sound,  the  sound  of  men  talking  in  some 
cavernous  space.  He  stops  dead,  and  signals 
to  his  companions  to  do  likewise.  Then  he 
listens  again.  Yes,  he  can  distinctly  hear 
guttural  voices,  and  an  occasional  clink,  clink. 


THE    TRIVIAL   ROUND  275 

The  saphead  has  been  reached,  and  digging 
operations  are  in  progress. 

A  whispered  order  comes  down  the  line 
that  M'Snape  is  to  "investigate."  He 
wriggles  forward  until  his  progress  is  arrested 
by  a  stunted  bush.  Very  stealthily  he  rises 
to  his  knees  and  peers  over.  As  he  does  so, 
a  chance  star-shell  bursts  squarely  over  him, 
and  comes  sizzling  officiously  down  almost  on 
to  his  back.  His  head  drops  like  a  stone  into 
the  bush,  but  not  before  the  ghostly  mag- 
nesium flare  has  shown  him  what  he  came 
out  to  see  —  a  deep  shell-crater.  The  crater 
is  full  of  Germans.  They  look  like  grey 
beetles  in  a  trap,  and  are  busy  with  pick 
and  shovel,  apparently  " improving"  the 
crater  and  connecting  it  with  their  own  fire- 
trenches.  They  have  no  sentry  out.  Dormitat 
Eomerus. 

M'Snape  worms  his  way  back,  and  reports. 
Then,  in  accordance  with  an  oft-rehearsed 
scheme,  the  bombing  party  forms  itself  into 
an  arc  of  a  circle  at  a  radius  of  some  twenty 
yards  from  the  stunted  bush.  (Not  the  least 
of  the  arts  of  bomb-throwing  is  to  keep  out 
of  range  of  your  own  bombs.)  Every  man's 
hand  steals  to  his  pocketed  belt.  Next 
moment  Simson  flings  the  first  bomb.  It 
flies  fairly  into  the  middle  of  the  crater. 

Half  a  dozen  more  go  swirling  after  it. 
There  is  a  shattering  roar ;  a  cloud  of  smoke ; 
a  muffled  rush  of  feet;  silence;  some  groans. 
Almost  simultaneously  the  German  trenches 


276    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

are  in  an  uproar.  A  dozen  star-shells  leap 
to  the  sky;  there  is  a  hurried  outburst  of 
rifle  fire;  a  machine-gun  begins  to  patter 
out  a  stuttering  malediction. 

Meanwhile  our  friends,  who  have  exhibited 
no  pedantic  anxiety  to  remain  and  behold  the 
result  of  their  labours,  are  lying  upon  their 
stomachs  in  a  convenient  fold  in  the  ground, 
waiting  patiently  until  such  time  as  it 
shall  be  feasible  to  complete  their  homeward 
journey. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  do  so,  and  roll 
one  by  one  over  the  parapet  into  the  trench. 
Casualties  are  slight.  Private  Nimmo  has  a 
bullet-wound  in  the  calf  of  his  leg;  and 
Sergeant  Carfrae,  whom  Nature  does  not 
permit  to  lie  as  flat  as  the  others,  will 
require  some  repairs  to  the  pleats  of  Ms 
kilt. 

"All  present?"  inquires  Simson. 

It  is  discovered  that  M'Snape  has  not  re- 
turned. Anxious  eyes  peer  over  the  parapet. 
The  moon  is  stronger  now,  but  it  is  barely 
possible  to  distinguish  objects  clearly  for 
more  than  a  few  yards. 

A  star-shell  bursts,  and  heads  sink  below 
the  parapet.  A  German  bullet  passes  over- 
head, with  a  sound  exactly  like  the  crack  of 
a  whip.  Silence  and  comparative  darkness 
return.  The  heads  go  up  again. 

"I'll  give  him  five  minutes  more,  and 
then  go  and  look  for  him,"  says  Simson. 
"Hallo!" 


THE    TKIVIAL   ROUND  277 

A  small  bush,  growing  just  outside  the 
barbed  wire,  rises  suddenly  to  its  feet;  and, 
picking  its  way  with  incredible  skill  through 
the  nearest  opening,  runs  at  full  speed  for 
the  parapet.  Next  moment  it  tumbles  over 
into  the  trench. 

Willing  hands  extracted  M'Snape  from  his 
arboreal  envelope  —  he  could  probably  have 
got  home  quite  well  without  it,  but  once  a 
Boy  Scout,  always  a  Boy  Scout  —  and  he 
made  his  report. 

"I  went  back  to  have  a  look-see  into  the 
crater,  sirr." 

"Well!" 

"It's  fair  blown  in,  sirr,  and  a  good  piece 
of  the  sap  too.  I  tried  could  I  find  a  prisoner 
to  bring  in"  —  our  Colonel  has  promised  a 
reward  of  fifty  francs  to  the  man  who  can 
round  up  a  whole  live  Bosche  —  "but  there 
were  nane.  They  had  got  their  wounded 
away,  I  doubt. ' ' 

"Never  mind,"  says  Simson.  "Sergeant, 
see  these  men  get  some  sleep  now.  Stand-to 
at  two-thirty,  as  usual.  I  must  go  and  pitch 
in  a  report,  and  I  shall  say  you  all  did 
splendidly.  Good-night ! 9 ' 

This  morning,  the  official  Intelligence  Sum- 
mary of  our  Division  —  published  daily  and 
-known  to  the  unregenerate  as  "Comic  Cuts" 
—  announced,  with  solemn  relish,  among  other 
items  of  news :  — 

Last  night  a  small  party  'bombed  a  sus- 


278    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

pected  saphead  at  —  here  followed  the  exact 
bearings  of  the  crater  on  the  large-scale 
map.  Loud  groans  were  heard,  so  it  is 
probable  that  the  bombs  took  effect. 

For  the  moment,  life  has  nothing  more  to 
offer  to  our  seven  friends. 


n 


As  already  noted,  our  enthusiasm  for  our 
own  sphere  of  activity  is  not  always  shared 
by  our  colleagues.  For  instance,  we  in  the 
trenches  frequently  find  the  artillery  of  both 
sides  unduly  obtrusive ;  and  we  are  of  opinion 
that  in  trench  warfare  artillery  practice  should 
be  limited  by  mutual  consent  to  twelve  rounds 
per  gun  per  day,  fired  by  the  gunners  at 
the  gunners.  "Except,  of  course,  when  the 
Big  Push  comes."  The  Big  Push  is  seldom 
absent  from  our  thoughts  in  these  days. 

"That,"  observed  Captain  Wagstaffe  to 
Bobby  Little,  "would  leave  us  foot-sloggers 
to  settle  our  own  differences.  My  opinion 
is  that  we  should  do  so  with  much  greater 
satisfaction  to  ourselves  if  we  weren't  con- 
stantly interfered  with  by  coal-boxes  and 
Black  Marias." 

"Still,  you  can't  blame  them  for  loosing  off 
their  big  guns,""  contended  the  fair-minded 
Bobby.  ' '  It  must  be  great  sport. ' ' 

"They  tell  me  it's  a  greatly  overrated 
amusement,"  replied  Wagstaffe  —  "like  post- 


THE    TRIVIAL   ROUND  279 

ing  an  insulting  letter  to  some  one  you  dis- 
like. You  see,  you  aren't  there  when  he 
opens  it  at  breakfast  next  morning!  The 
only  man  of  them  who  gets  any  fun  is  the 
Forward  Observing  Officer.  And  he,"  con- 
cluded Wagstaffe  in  an  unusual  vein  of 
pessimism,  "does  not  live  long  enough  to 
enjoy  it!" 

The  grievances  of  the  Infantry,  however, 
are  not  limited  to  those  supplied  by  the 
Eoyal  Artillery.  There  are  the  machine- 
guns  and  the  trench-mortars. 

The  machine-gunner  is  a  more  or  less 
accepted  nuisance  by  this  time.  He  has 
his  own  emplacements  in  the  line,  but  he 
never  appears  to  use  them.  Instead,  he 
adopts  the  peculiar  expedient  of  removing 
las  weapon  from  a  snug  and  well-fortified 
position,  and  either  taking  it  away  some- 
where behind  the  trenches  and  firing  salvoes 
over  your  head  (which  is  reprehensible),  or 
planting  it  upon  the  parapet  in  your  par- 
ticular preserve,  and  firing  it  from  there 
(which  is  criminal).  Machine-gun  fire  always 
provokes  retaliation. 

"Why  in  thunder  can't  you  keep  your 
filthy  tea-kettle  in  its  own  place,  instead 
of  bringing  it  here  to  draw  fire?"  inquired 
Mr.  Cockerell,  not  altogether  unreasonably, 
as  Ayling  and  his  satellites  passed  along 
the  trench  bearing  the  offending  weapon, 
with  water-jacket  aboil,  back  to  its  official 
residence. 


280    THE   FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

"It  is  all  for  your  good,  my  little  man," 
explained  Ay  ling  loftily.  "It  would  never 
do  to  give  away  one's  real  gun  positions. 
If  we  did,  the  Bosches  would  sit  tight  and 
say  nothing  at  the  time,  but  just  make  a 
note  of  the  occurrence.  Then,  one  fine 
morning,  when  they  really  meant  business, 
they  would  begin  by  droping  a  Black  Maria 
on  top  of  each  emplacement;  and  where 
would  you  and  your  platoon  be  then,  with 
an  attack  coming  on  and  us  out  of  action? 
So  long!" 

But  the  most  unpopular  man  in  the 
trenches  is  undoubtedly  the  Trench  Mortar 
Officer.  His  apparatus  consists  of  what 
looks  like  a  section  of  rain-pipe,  standing 
on  legs.  Upon  its  upturned  muzzle  is  poised 
a  bomb,  having  the  appearance  of  a  plum- 
pudding  on  a  stick.  This  he  discharges 
over  the  parapet  into  the  German  trenches, 
where  it  causes  a  comforting  explosion.  He 
then  walks  rapidly  away. 

For  obvious  reasons,  it  is  not  advisable 
to  fire  a  trench-mortar  too  often  —  at  any 
rate  from  the  same  place.  But  the  whole 
weight  of  public  opinion  in  our  trench  is 
directed  against  it  being  fired  from  anywhere 
at  all.  Behold  the  Trench  Mortar  Officer 
and  his  gang  of  pariahs  creeping  stealthily 
along  in  the  lee  of  the  parados,  just  as  dawn 
breaks,  in  the  section  of  trench  occupied  by 
No.  10  Platoon.  For  the  moment  they  are 
unheeded,  for  the  platoon  are  "  standing-to, " 


THE    TEIVIAL  BOUND  281 

and  the  men  are  lined  along  the  firing-step, 
with  their  backs  to  the  conspirators. 

On  reaching  a  suitable  spot,  the  mortar 
party  proceed  to  erect  their  apparatus  with 
as  little  ostentation  as  possible.  But  they 
are  soon  discovered.  The  platoon  subaltern 
hurries  up. 

" Awfully  sorry,  old  man,"  he  says  breath- 
lessly, "but  the  C.O.  gave  particular  orders 
that  this  part  of  the  trench  was  on  no  ac- 
count to  be  used  for  trench-mortar  fire.  You 
see,  we  are  only  about  seventy  yards  from 
the  Bosche  trenches  here " 

"I  know,"  explains  the  T.M.O.;  "that  is 
why  I  came." 

"But  it  is  most  important,"  continues  the 
platoon  commander,  still  quoting  glibly  from 
an  entirely  imaginary  mandate  of  the  C.O., 
"that  no  retaliatory  shell  fire  should  be 
attracted  here.  Most  serious  for  the  whole 
Brigade,  if  this  bit  of  parapet  got  pushed 
over.  Now,  there's  a  topping  place  about 
ten  traverses  away.  You  can  lob  them  over 
from  there  beautifully.  Come  along." 

And  with  fair  words  and  honeyed  phrases 
he  elbows  the  dispirited  band  to  a  position 
—  for  his  platoon  —  of  comparative  inoffen- 
siveness. 

The  Trench  Mortar  Officer  drifts  on,  and 
presently,  with  the  uneasy  assurance  of  the 
proprietor  of  a  punch-and-judy  show  who 
has  inadvertently  strayed  into  Park  Lane, 
attempts  once  more  to  give  his  unpopular 


, 


282    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

entertainment.  This  time  his  shrift  is  even 
shorter,  for  he  encounters  Major  Kemp  — 
never  at  his  sunniest  in  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning. 

Field  officers  have  no  need  to  employ  the 
language  of  diplomacy  when  dealing  with 
subalterns. 

"No,  you  don't,  my  lad!"  announces  the 
Major.  "Not  if  I  can  help  it !  Take  it  away ! 
Take  your  darned  liver-pill  out  of  this !  Burn 
it!  Bury  it!  Eat  it!  But  not  here!  Creep 
away!" 

The  abashed  procession  complies.  This 
time  they  find  a  section  of  trench  in  charge 
of  a  mere  corporal.  Here,  before  any  one  of 
sufficient  standing  can  be  summoned  to  deal 
with  the  situation,  the  Trench  Mortar  Officer 
seizes  his  opportunity,  and  discharges  three 
bombs  over  the  parapet.  He  then  retires 
defiantly  to  his  dug-out. 

But  it  is  an  Ishmaelitish  existence. 


m 


So  much  for  the  alleviations  which  pro- 
fessional enthusiasm  bestows.  Now  for  a 
few  alleviations  proper.  These  are  Sleep, 
Food,  and  Literature. 

Sleep  is  the  rarest  of  these.  We  seldom 
get  more  than  a  few  hours  at  a  time;  but 
it  is  astonishing  how  readily  one  learns  to 
slumber  in  unlikely  surroundings  —  upon 


THE    TRIVIAL   ROUND  283 

damp  earth,  in  cramped  positions,  amid 
ceaseless  noise,  in  clothes  and  boots  that  have 
not  been  removed  for  days.  One  also  acquires 
the  priceless  faculty  of  losing  no  time  in  drop- 
ping off. 

As  for  food,  we  grumble  at  times,  just  as 
people  at  home  are  grumbling  at 'the  Savoy, 
or  Lockhart's.  It  is  the  Briton's  habit  so  to 
do.  But  in  moments  of  repletion  we  are  fain 
to  confess  that  the  organisation  of  our  com- 
missariat is  wonderful.  Of  course  the  quality 
of  the  menu  varies,  according  to  the  immunity 
of  the  communication-trenches  from  shell  fire, 
or  the  benevolence  of  the  Quartermaster  and 
the  mysterious  powers  behind  him,  or  the 
facilities  for  cooking  offered  by  the  time  and 
place  in  which  we  find  ourselves.  No  large 
fires  are  permitted:  the  smoke  would  give 
too  good  a  ranging-mark  to  Minnie  and  her 
relatives.  Still,  it  is  surprising  how  quickly 
you  can  boil  a  canteen  over  a  few  chips. 
There  is  also,  for  those  who  can  afford 
half-a-crown,  that  invaluable  contrivance, 
"Tommy's  Cooker";  and  occasionally  we  get 
a  ration  of  coke.  When  times  are  bad,  we 
live  on  bully,  biscuit,  cheese,  and  water, 
strongly  impregnated  with  chloride  of  lime. 
The  water  is  conveyed  to  us  in  petrol-tins  — 
the  old  familiar  friends,  Shell  and  Pratt  — 
hundreds  of  them.  Motorists  at  home  must 
be  feeling  the  shortage.  In  normal  times 
we  can  reckon  on  plenty  of  hot,  strong  tea; 
possibly  some  bread;  probably  an  allowance 


284    THE    FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

of  bacon  and  jam.  And  sometimes,  when  the 
ration  parties  arrive,  mud-stained  and  weary, 
in  the  dead  of  night,  and  throw  down  their 
bursting  sacks,  our  eyes  feast  upon  such  rev- 
elations as  tinned  butter,  condensed  milk, 
raisins,  and  a  consignment  of  that  great  chief- 
tain of  the  ration  race,  The  Maconochie  of 
Maconochie.  On  these  occasions  Private 
Mucklewame  collects  his  share,  retires  to  his 
kennel,  and  has  a  gala-day. 

Thirdly,  the  blessings  of  literature.  Our 
letters  arrive  at  night,  with  the  rations.  The 
mail  of  our  battalion  alone  amounts  to  eight 
or  ten  mail-bags  a  day;  from  which  you  may 
gather  some  faint  idea  of  the  labours  of  our 
Field  Post  Offices.  There  are  letters,  and 
parcels,  and  newspapers.  Letters  we  may 
pass  over.  They  are  featureless  things,  ex- 
cept to  their  recipient.  Parcels  have  more 
individuality.  Ours  are  of  all  shapes  and 
sizes,  and  most  of  them  are  astonishingly 
badly  tied.  It  is  quite  heartrending  to  be- 
hold a  kilted  exile  endeavouring  to  gather  up 
a  heterogeneous  mess  of  socks,  cigarettes, 
chocolate,  soap,  shortbread,  and  Edinburgh 
rock,  from  the  ruins  of  what  was  once  a  flabby 
and  unstable  parcel,  but  is  now  a  few  skimpy 
rags  of  brown  paper,  which  have  long  escaped 
the  control  of  a  most  inadequate  piece  of 
string  —  a  monument  of  maternal  lavishness 
and  feminine  economy. 

Then  there  are  the  newspapers.  We  read 
them  right  through,  beginning  at  the  adver- 


THE   TRIVIAL  ROUND  285 

Usements  and  not  skipping  even  the  leading 
articles.  Then,  when  we  have  finished,  we 
frequently  read  them  right  through  iagain. 
They  serve  three  purposes.  They  give  us 
information  as  to  how  the  War  is  progressing 
—  we  get  none  here,  the  rank  and  file,  that 
is;  they  serve  to  pass  the  time;  and  they 
afford  us  topics  for  conversation.  For  in- 
stance, they  enable  us  to  follow  and  discuss 
the  trend  of  home  politics.  And  in  this  con- 
nection, I  think  it  is  time  you  were  introduced 
to  Captain  Achille  Petitpois.  (That  is  not 
his  real  name,  but  it  is  as  near  to  it  as  most 
of  us  are  likely  to  get.)  He  is  one  of  that 
most  efficient  body,  the  French  liaison  officers, 
who  act  as  connecting-link  between  the  Allied 
Forces,  and  naturally  is  an  accomplished  lin- 
guist. He  is  an  ardent  admirer  of  British 
institutions,  but  is  occasionally  not  a  little 
puzzled  by  their  complexity.  So  he  very 
sensibly  comes  to  people  like  Captain  Wag- 
staffe  for  enlightenment,  and  they  enlighten 
him. 

Behold  Achille  —  a  guest  in  A  Company's 
billet  —  drinking  whisky-and-sparklet  out  of 
an  aluminium  mug,  and  discussing  the  news 
of  the  day. 

"And  your  people  at  home,"  he  said,  "you 
think  they  are  taking  the  War  seriously?" 
(Achille  is  addicted  to  reading  the  English 
newspapers  without  discrimination.) 

"So  seriously,"  replied  Wagstaffe  in- 
stantly, "that  it  has  become  necessary  for 


286    THE    FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 


the  Government  to  take  steps  to  cheer 
them  up." 

"Comment?"  inquired  Achille  politely. 

For  answer  Wagstaffe  picked  up  a  three- 
day-old  London  newspaper,  and  read  aloud 
an  extract  from  the  Parliamentary  report. 
The  report  dealt  faithfully  with  the  latest 
antics  of  the  troupe  of  eccentric  comedians 
which  appears  (to  us),  since  the  formation  of 
the  Coalition  Government,  to  have  taken  pos- 
session of  the  front  Opposition  Bench. 

"Who  are  these  assassins  —  these  imbeciles 
—  these  cretins/'  inquired  Petitpois,  "who 
would  endanger  the  ship  of  the  State?" 
(Achille  prides  himself  upon  his  knowledge 
of  English  idiom.) 

"Nobody  knows!"  replied  Wagstaffe  sol- 
emnly. "They  are  children  of  mystery.  Be- 
fore the  War,  nobody  had  ever  heard  of  them. 
They " 

"But  they  should  be  shot!"  explained  that 
free-born  Eepublican,  Petitpois. 

"Not  a  bit,  old  son!  That  is  where  you 
fail  to  grasp  the  subtleties  of  British  states- 
manship. I  tell  you  there  are  no  flies  on  our 
Cabinet!" 

"Flies?" 

"Yes:  mouches,  you  know.  The  agility  of 
our  Cabinet  Ministers  is  such  that  these  little 
insects  find  it  impossible  to  alight  upon 
them." 

"Your  Ministers  are  athletes — yes,"  agreed 
Achille  comprehendingly.  "But  the " 


THE    TRIVIAL   ROUND  287 

"Only  intellectually.  What  I  mean  is 
that  they  are  a  very  downy  collection  of  old 
gentlemen — " 

Achille,  murmuring  something  hazy  about 
"Downing  Street, "  nodded  his  head. 

"  — And  when  they  came  into  power,  they 
knew  as  well  as  anything  that  after  three 
weeks  or  so  the  country  would  begin  to 
grouse " 

"Grouse?  A  sporting  bird?"  interpolated 
Achille. 

"Exactly.  They  knew  that  the  country 
would  soon  start  giving  them  the  bird " 

1 '  What  bird  ?    The  grouse  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  dry  up,  Wagger!"  interposed  Blaikie. 
"He  means,  Petitpois,  that  the  Government, 
knowing  that  the  electorate  would  begin  to 
grow  impatient  if  the  War  did  not  imme- 
diately take  a  favourable  turn " 

Achille  smiled. 

"I  see  now,"  he  said.  "Proceed,  Ouag- 
stafPe,  my  old ! ' ' 

"In  other  words,"  continued  the  officer  so 
addressed,  "the  Government  decided  that  if 
they  gave  the  Opposition  half  a  chance  to  get 
together,  and  find  leaders,  and  consolidate 
their  new  trenches,  they  might  turn  them 
out." 

"Bien,"  assented  Achille.  Every  one  was 
listening  now,  for  Wagstaffe  as  a  politician 
usually  had  something  original  to  say. 

"Well,"  proceeded  Wagstaffe,  "they  saw 
that  the  great  thing  to  do  was  to  prevent 


288    THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 


the  Opposition  from  making  an  impression 
on  the  country  —  from  being  taken  too  seri- 
ously, in  fact.  So  what  did  they  do!  They 
said:  'Let's  arrange  for  a  comic  Opposition 
—  an  Opposition  pour  rire,  you  know.  They 
will  make  the  country  either  laugh  or  cry. 
Anyhow,  the  country  will  be  much  too  busy 
deciding  which  to  do  to  have  any  time  to 
worry  about  us;  so  we  shall  have  a  splendid 
chance  to  get  on  with  the  War.'  So  they 
sent  down  the  Strand  —  that's  where  the 
Variety  agents  foregather,  I  believe  —  what 
you  call  entrepreneurs,  Achille  —  and  booked 
this  troupe,  complete,  for  the  run  of  the 
War.  They  did  the  thing  in  style;  spared 
no  expense;  and  got  a  comic  newspaper 
proprietor  to  write  the  troupe  up,  and 
themselves  down.  The  scheme  worked  beau- 
tifully—  what  you  would  call  a  succes  fou, 
Achille." 

"I  am  desolated,  my  good  Ouagstaffe," 
observed  Petitpois  after  a  pregnant  silence; 
"but  I  cannot  believe  all  you  say." 

"I  may  be  wrong,"  admitted  Wagstaffe 
handsomely,  "but  that's  my  reading  of  the 
situation.  At  any  rate,  Achille,  you  will  ad- 
mit that  my  theory  squares  with  the  known 
facts  of  the  case." 

Petitpois  bowed  politely. 

"Perhaps  it  is  I  who  am  wrong,  my  dear 
Ouagger.  There  is  such  a  difference  of  point 
of  view  between  your  politics  and  ours." 

The  deep  voice  of  Captain  Blaikie  broke  in. 


THE   TRIVIAL   EOUND  289 

"If  Lancashire,"  he  said  grimly,  "were 
occupied  by  a  German  army,  as  the  Lille  dis- 
trict is  to-day,  I  fancy  there  would  be  a  con- 
siderable levelling  up  of  political  points  of 
view  all  round.  No  limelight  for  a  comic  op- 
position then,  Achille,  old  son ! ' ' 


IV 


Besides  receiving  letters,  we  write  them. 
And  this  brings  us  to  that  mysterious  and 
impalpable  despot,  the  Censor. 

There  is  not  much  mystery  about  him 
really.  Like  a  good  many  other  highly 
placed  individuals,  he  deputes  as  much  of 
his  work  as  possible  to  some  one  else  —  in 
this  case  that  long-suffering  maid-of-all-work, 
the  company  officer.  Let  us  track  Bobby 
Little  to  his  dug-out,  during  one  of  those 
numerous  periods  of  enforced  retirement 
which  occur  between  the  hours  of  three  and 
six,  "Pip  Emma"  —  as  our  friends  the  "buz- 
zers" call  the  afternoon.  On  the  floor  of  this 
retreat  (which  looks  like  a  dog-kennel  and 
smells  like  a  vault)  he  finds  a  small  heap 
of  letters,  deposited  there  for  purposes  of 
what  the  platoon-sergeant  calls  "censure." 
These  have  to  be  read  (which  is  bad) ;  licked 
up  (which  is  far  worse) ;  signed  on  the  out- 
side by  the  officer,  and  forwarded  to  Head- 
quarters. Here  they  are  stamped  with  the 
familiar  red  triangle  and  forwarded  to  the 


290    THE    FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Base,  where  they  are  supposed  to  be  scrutin- 
ised by  the  real  Censor  —  i.e.,  the  gentleman 
who  is  paid  for  the  job  —  and  are  finally 
despatched  to  their  destination. 

Bobby,  drawing  his  legs  well  inside  the 
kennel,  out  of  the  way  of  stray  shrapnel  bul- 
lets, begins  his  task. 

The  heap  resolves  itself  into  three  parts. 
First  come  the  post-cards,  which  give  no 
trouble,  as  their  secrets  are  written  plain 
for  all  to  see.  There  are  half  a  dozen  or 
so  of  the  British  Army  official  issue,  which 
are  designed  for  the  benefit  of  those  who 
lack  the  epistolatory  gift  —  what  would  a 
woman  say  if  you  offered  such  things  to  her? 
—  and  bear  upon  the  back  the  following 
printed  statements:  — 

I  am  quite  well. 

I  have  been  admitted  to  hospital. 

I  am  sick         )   (  and  am  going  on  well. 

wounded  j   (  and  hope  to  be  discharged  soon. 
I  have  received  your  (  letter,       dated  .  .  . 
\  telegram,     " 
[  parcel, 

Letter  follows  at  first  opportunity. 
I  have  received  no  letter  from  you{  lately. 

\  for  a  long  time. 

(The  gentleman  who  designed  this  post- 
card must  have  been  a  descendant  of  Sydney 
Smith.  You  remember  that  great  man's 
criticism  of  the  Books  of  Euclid?  He  pre- 
ferred the  Second  Book,  on  the  ground  that 
it  was  more  " impassioned"  than  the  others!) 


THE   TKIVIAL  BOUND  291 

All  the  sender  of  this  impassioned  missive 
has  to  do  is  to  delete  such  clauses  as  strike 
him  as  untruthful  or  over-demonstrative,  and 
sign  his  name.  He  is  not  allowed  to  add 
any  comments  of  his  own.  On  this  occasion, 
however,  one  indignant  gentleman  has  pen- 
cilled the  ironical  phrase,  "I  don't  think !" 
opposite  the  line  which  acknowledges  the  re- 
ceipt of  a  parcel.  Bobby  lays  this  aside,  to 
be  returned  to  the  sender. 

Then  come  some  French  picture  post-cards. 
Most  of  these  present  soldiers  —  soldiers 
posing,  soldiers  exchanging  international 
handgrips,  soldiers  grouped  round  a  massive 
and  decolletee  lady  in  flowing  robes,  and 
declaring  that  La  patrie  sera  libre!  Un- 
derneath this  last,  Private  Ogg  has  written: 
"Dear  Lizzie,  —  I  hope  this  finds  you  well 
as  it  leaves  me  so.  I  send  you  a  French 
p.c.  The  writing  means  long  live  the  Queen 
of  France. ' ' 

The  next  heap  consists  of  letters  in  official- 
looking  green  envelopes.  These  are  already 
sealed  up,  and  the  sender  has  signed  the 
following  attestation,  printed  on  the  flap:  7 
certify  on  my  honour  that  the  contents  of  this 
envelope  refer  to  nothing  but  private  and 
family  matters.  Setting  aside  a  rather  bulky 
epistle  addressed  to  The  Editor  of  a  popular 
London  weekly,  which  advertises  a  circulation 
of  over  a  million  copies  —  a  singularly  unsuit- 
able recipient  for  correspondence  of  a  private 
and  family  nature  —  Bobby  turns  to  the  third 


292    THE    FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

heap,  and  sets  to  work  upon  his  daily  task 
of  detecting  items  of  information,  "  which  if 
intercepted  or  published  might  prove  of  value 
to  the  enemy. " 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  task  to  pry  into  another 
person's  correspondence,  but  Bobby's  scruples 
are  considerably  abated  by  the  consciousness 
that  on  this  occasion  he  is  doing  so  with  the 
writer's  full  knowledge.  Consequently  it  is 
a  clear  case  of  caveat  scriptor.  Not  that 
Bobby's  flock  show  any  embarrassment  at 
the  prospect  of  his  scrutiny.  Most  of  them 
write  with  the  utmost  frankness,  whether 
they  are  conducting  a  love  affair,  or  are  in- 
volved in  a  domestic  broil  of  the  most  per- 
sonal nature.  In  fact,  they  seem  rather  to 
enjoy  having  an  official  audience.  Others 
cheerfully  avail  themselves  of  this  oppor- 
tunity of  conveying  advice  or  reproof  to  those 
above  them,  by  means  of  what  the  Eoyal 
Artillery  call  "indirect  fire."  Private  Dun- 
shie  remarks:  "We  have  been  getting  no  pay 
these  three  weeks,  but  I  doubt  the  officer  will 
know  what  has  become  of  the  money."  It 
is  the  firm  conviction  of  every  private  sol- 
dier in  "K(l)"  that  all  fines  and  deductions 
go  straight  into  the  pocket  of  the  officer  who 
levies  them.  Private  Hogg,  always  an  opti- 
mist, opines:  "The  officers  should  know  bet- 
ter how  to  treat  us  now,  for  they  all  get  a 
read  of  our  letters." 

But,  as  recorded  above,  the  outstanding 
feature  of  this  correspondence  is  an  engaging 


THE   TEIVIAL  HOUND  293 

frankness.  For  instance,  Private  Cosh,  who 
under  an  undemonstrative,  not  to  say  wooden, 
exterior  evidently  conceals  a  heart  as  inflam- 
mable as  flannelette,  is  conducting  single- 
handed  no  less  than  four  parallel  love  affairs. 
One  lady  resides  in  his  native  Coatbridge,  the 
second  is  in  service  in  South  Kensington,  the 
third  serves  in  a  shop  in  Kelvinside,  and  the 
fourth  moth  appears  to  have  been  attracted 
to  this  most  unlikely  candle  during  our  so- 
journ in  winter  billets  in  Hampshire.  Cosh 
writes  to  them  all  most  ardently  every  week 
—  sometimes  oftener  —  and  Bobby  Little,  as 
he  ploughs  wearily  through  repeated  demands 
for  photographs,  and  touching  protestations 
of  lifelong  affection,  curses  the  verbose  and 
susceptible  youth  with  all  his  heart. 

But  this  mail  brings  him  a  gleam  of 
comfort. 

So  you  tell  me,  Chrissie,  writes  Cosh  to  the 
lady  in  South  Kensington,  that  you  are  en- 
gaged  to  be  married  on  a  milkman.  .  .  . 

("  Thank  heaven!"  murmurs  Bobby 
piously.) 

No,  no,  Chrissie,  you  need  not  trouble  your- 
self. It  is  nothing  to  me. 

("He's  as  sick  as  muck!"  comments 
Bobby.) 

All  I  did  before  was  in  friendship's  name. 

("Liar!") 

Bobby,  thankfully  realising  that  his  daily 
labours  will  be  materially  lightened  by  the 
withdrawal  of  the  fickle  Chrissie  from  the 


. 


• 


294    THE    FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

postal  arena,  ploughs  steadily  through  the 
letters.  Most  of  them  begin  in  accordance 
with  some  approved  formula,  such  as  — 

It  is  with  the  greatest  of  pleasure  that  I 
take  up  my  pen 

It  is  invariably  a  pencil,  and  a  blunt  one  a 
that. 

Crosses  are  ubiquitous,  and  the  flap  of  the 
envelope  usually  bears  the  mystic  formula, 
S.W.A.K.  This  apparently  means  "  Sealed 
with  a  Mss,"  which,  considering  that  the 
sealing  is  done  not  by  the  writer  but  by 
the  Censor,  seems  to  take  a  good  deal  for 
granted. 

Most  of  the  letters  acknowledge  the  receipt 
of  a  "parcle";  many  give  a  guarded  summary 
of  the  military  situation. 

We  are  not  allowed  to  tell  you  about  the 
War,  but  I  may  say  that  we  are  now  in  the 
trenches.  We  are  all  in  the  pink,  and  not 
many  of  the  boys  has  gotten  a  dose  of  lead- 
poisoning  yet. 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  names  of  places  have 
to  be  left  blank.  Otherwise  we  should  get 
some  fine  phonetic  spelling.  Our  pronun- 
ciation is  founded  on  no  pedantic  rules.  Ar- 
mentieres  is  Armentears,  Busnes  is  Business, 
Bailleul  is  Booloo,  and  Vieille  Chapelle  is 
Veal  Chapel. 

The  chief  difficulty  of  the  writers  appears 
to  be  to  round  off  their  letters  gracefully. 
Having  no  more  to  say,  I  will  now  draw  to 
a  close,  is  the  accepted  formula.  Private 


THE   TEIVIAL  EOUND  295 

Burke,  never  a  tactician,  concludes  a  most 
ardent  love-letter  thus:  "Well,  Kate,  I  will 
now  close,  as  I  have  to  write  to  another  of 
the  girls." 

But  to  Private  Mucklewame  literary  com- 
position presents  no  difficulties.  Here  is  a 
single  example  of  his  terse  and  masterly 
style :  — 

Dere  wife,  if  you  could  make,  the  next  postal 
order  a  trifle  stronger,  I  might  get  getting  an 
egg  to  my  tea.  —  Your  loving  husband,  JAS. 
MUCKLEWAME,  No.  74077. 

But  there  are  features  of  this  multifarious 
correspondence  over  which  one  has  no  inclina- 
tion to  smile.  There  are  wistful  references  to 
old  days;  tender  inquiries  after  bairns  and 
weans;  assurances  to  anxious  wives  and 
mothers  that  the  dangers  of  modern  warfare 
are  merely  nominal.  There  is  an  almost 
entire  absence  of  boasting  or  lying,  and 
very  little  complaining.  There  is  a  general 
and  obvious  desire  to  allay  anxiety.  We 
are  all  "fine";  we  are  all  "in  the  pink." 
"This  is  a  grand  life." 

Listen  to  Lance-Corporal  M'Snape:  Well, 
mother,  I  got  your  parcel,  and  the  things  was 
most  welcome;  but  you  must  not  send  any 
more.  I  seen  a  shilling  stamp  on  the  parcel: 
that  is  too  much  for  you  to  afford.  How 
many  officers  take  the  trouble  to  examine  the 
stamp  on  their  parcels? 

And  there  is  a  wealth  of  homely  sentiment 
and  honest  affection  which  holds  up  its  head 


o 


296    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

without  shame  even  in  the  presence  of  the 
Censor.  One  rather  pathetic  screed,  begin- 
ning: Well,  wife,  I  doubt  this  will  be  a  poor 
letter,  for  I  canna  get  one  of  they  green  en- 
velopes to-day,  but  I'll  try  my  best  —  Bobby 
Little  sealed  and  signed  without  further 
scrutiny. 


One  more  picture,  to  close  the  record  of 
our  trivial  round. 

It  is  a  dark,  moist,  and  most  unpleasant 
dawn.  Captain  Blaikie  stands  leaning  against 
a  traverse  in  the  fire-trench,  superintending 
the  return  of  a  party  from  picket  duty. 
They  file  in,  sleepy  and  dishevelled,  through 
an  archway  in  the  parapet,  on  their  way  to 
dug-outs  and  repose.  The  last  man  in  the 
procession  is  Bobby  Little,  who  has  been  in 
charge  all  night. 

Our  line  here  makes  a  sharp  bend  round 
the  corner  of  an  orchard,  and  for  security's 
sake  a  second  trench  has  been  cut  behind, 
making,  as  it  were,  the  cross-bar  of  a  capital 
A.  The  apex  of  the  A  is  no  health  resort. 
Brother  Bosche,  as  already  explained,  is  only 
fifty  yards  away,  and  his  trench-mortars  make 
excellent  practice  with  the  parapet.  So  the 
Orchard  Trench  is  only  occupied  at  night, 
and  the  alternative  route,  which  is  well  con- 
structed and  comparatively  safe,  is  used  by 


THE    TEIVIAL  BOUND  297 

all  careful  persons  who  desire  to  proceed  from 
one  arm  of  the  A  to  the  other. 

The  present  party  are  the  night  picket, 
thankfully  relinquishing  their  vigil  round  the 
apex. 

Bobby  Little  remained  to  bid  his  company- 
commander  good-morning  at  the  junction  of 
the  two  trenches. 

"Any  casualties? "  An  invariable  question 
at  this  spot. 

"No,  sir.  We  were  lucky.  There  was  a 
lot  of  sniping." 

"It's  a  rum  profession,"  mused  Captain 
Blaikie,  who  was  in  a  wakeful  mood. 

"In  what  way,  sir?"  inquired  the  sleepy 
but  respectful  Bobby. 

« Well  "  —  Captain  Blaikie  began  to  fill  his 
pipe  —  "who  takes  about  nine-tenths  of  the 
risk,  and  does  practically  all  the  hard  work 
in  the  Army?  The  private  and  the  sub- 
altern—  you  and  your  picket,  in  fact.  Now, 
here  is  the  problem  which  has  puzzled  me 
ever  since  I  joined  the  Army,  and  Pve  had 
nineteen  years'  service.  The  farther  away 
you  remove  the  British  soldier  from  the  risk 
of  personal  injury,  the  higher  you  pay  him. 
Out  here,  a  private  of  the  line  gets  about 
a  shilling  a  day.  For  that  he  digs,  saps, 
marches,  and  fights  like  a  hero.  The  motor- 
transport  driver  gets  six  shillings  a  day,  no 
danger,  and  lives  like  a  fighting  cock.  The 
Army  Service  Corps  drive  about  in  motors, 
pinch  our  rations,  and  draw  princely  incomes. 


. 


298    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

Staff  Officers  are  compensated  for  their  com- 
parative security  by  extra  cash,  and  first  chop 
at  the  war  medals.  Now  —  why  ? ' ' 

"I  dare  say  they  would  sooner  be  here, 
in  the  trenches,  with  us,"  was  Bobby's  char- 
acteristic reply. 

Blaikie  lit  his  pipe  —  it  was  almost  broad 
daylight  now  —  and  considered. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed  —  "perhaps.  Still,  my 
son,  I  can't  say  I  have  ever  noticed  Staff 
Officers  crowding  into  the  trenches  (as  they 
have  a  perfect  right  to  do)  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  And  I  can't  say  I  altogether 
blame  them.  In  fact,  if  ever  I  do  meet  one 
performing  such  a  feat,  I  shall  say:  *  There 
goes  a  sahib  —  and  a  soldier ! '  and  I  shall  take 
off  my  hat  to  him." 

"Well,  get  ready  now,"  said  Bobby. 
"Look!" 

They  were  still  standing  at  the  trench 
junction.  Two  figures,  in  the  uniform  of  the 
Staff,  were  visible  in  Orchard  Trench,  work- 
ing their  way  'down  from  the  apex  —  pick- 
ing their  steps  amid  the  tumbled  sandbags, 
and  stooping  low  to  avoid  gaps  in  the  ruined 
parapet.  The  sun  was  just  rising  behind 
the  German  trenches.  One  of  the  officers 
was  burly  and  middle-aged;  he  did  not  ap- 
pear to  enjoy  bending  double.  His  com- 
panion was  slight,  fair-haired,  and  looked 
incredibly  young.  Once  or  twice  he  glanced 
over  his  shoulder,  and  smiled  encouragingly 
at  his  senior. 


THE   TEIVIAL   ROUND  299 

The  pair  emerged  through  the  archway  into 
the  main  trench,  and  straightened  their  backs 
with  obvious  relief.  The  younger  officer  —  he 
was  a  lieutenant  —  noticed  Captain  Blaikie, 
saluted  him  gravely,  and  turned  to  follow  his 
companion. 

Captain  Blaikie  did  not  take  his  hat  off, 
as  he  had  promised.  Instead,  he  stood  sud- 
denly to  attention,  and  saluted  in  return, 
keeping  his  hand  uplifted  until  the  slim, 
childish  figure  had  disappeared  round  the 
corner  of  a  traverse. 

It  was  the  Prince  of  Wales. 


XX 

THE   GATHEBING   OF   THE   EAGLES 

WHEN  this  war  is  over,  and  the  glory  and  the 
praise  are  duly  assigned,  particularly  honour- 
able mention  should  be  made  of  the  inhabit- 
ants of  a  certain  ancient  French  town  with  a 
Scottish  name,  which  lies  not  far  behind  a 
particularly  sultry  stretch  of  the  trenches. 
The  town  is  subject  to  shell  fire,  as  splintered 
walls  and  shattered  windows  testify;  yet 
every  shop  stands  open.  The  town,  moreover, 
is  the  only  considerable  place  in  the  district, 
and  enjoys  a  monopoly  of  patronage  from  all 
the  surrounding  billeting  areas;  yet  the 
keepers  of  the  shops  have  heroically  refrained 
from  putting  up  their  prices  to  any  appreci- 
able extent.  This  combination  of  courage  and 
fair-dealing  has  had  its  reward.  The  town 
has  become  a  local  Mecca.  British  soldiers 
with  an  afternoon  to  spare  and  a  few  francs 
to  spend  come  in  from  miles  around.  Mess 
presidents  send  in  their  mess-sergeants,  and 
fearful  and  wonderful  is  the  marketing  which 
ensues. 


THE    GATHERING   OF   THE   EAGLES    301 

In  remote  and  rural  billets  catering  is  a 
simple  matter.  We  take  what  we  can  get, 
and  leave  it  at  that.  The  following  business- 
card,  which  Bobby  Little  once  found  attached 
to  an  outhouse  door  in  one  of  his  billets,  puts 
the  resources  of  a  French  hamlet  into  a  nut- 
shell:— 


SMOKING   ROM 
BEER 
WITHE 


COFFfi 

BGS 

But  in  town  the  shopper  has  a  wider  range. 
Behold  Sergeant  Goffin,  a  true-born  Londoner, 
with  the  Londoner's  faculty  of  never  being  at 
a  loss  for  a  word,  at  the  grocer's,  purchasing 
comforts  for  our  officers  '  mess. 

"Bong  jooer,  Mrs.  Pankhurst!"  he  observes 
breezily  to  the  plump  epiciere.  This  is  his 
invariable  greeting  to  French  ladies  who  dis- 
play any  tendency  to  volubility  —  and  they 
are  many. 

"Bon  jour,  M'sieu  le  Caporal!"  replies  the 
epiciere,  smiling.  t  '  M  'sieu  le  Caporal  desire  ?  '  ' 

The  sergeant  allows  his  reduction  in  rank 
to  pass  unnoticed.  He  does  not  understand 
the  French  tongue,  though  he  speaks  it  with 
great  fluency  and  incredible  success.  He 
holds  up  a  warning  hand. 

"Now,  keep  your  'and  off  the  tap  of  the 
gas-ineter  for  one  minute  if  you  please,"  he 


302    THE    FIEST   HUNDKED   THOUSAND 

rejoins,  "and  let  me  get  a  word  in  edgeways. 
I  want"  —  with  great  emphasis  —  "vinblank 
one,  vinrooge  two,  bogeys  six,  Dom  one. 
Compree?" 

By  some  miracle  the  smiling  lady  does 
"compree,"  and  produces  white  wine,  red 
wine,  candles,  and  —  a  bottle  of  Benedictine  1 
(Sergeant  Goffin  always  names  wines  after 
the  most  boldly  printed  word  upon  the  label. 
He  once  handed  round  some  champagne,  which 
he  insisted  on  calling  "a  bottle  of  brute.") 

"Combine?"  is  the  next  observation. 

The  epiciere  utters  the  series  of  short  sharp 
sibilants  of  which  all  French  numerals  appear 
to  be  composed.  It  sounds  like  "song-song- 
song."  The  resourceful  Goffin  lays  down  a 
twenty-franc  note. 

"Take  it  out  of  that,"  he  says  grandly. 

He  receives  his  change,  and  counts  it  with 
a  great  air  of  wisdom.  The  epiciere  breaks 
into  a  rapid  recital  —  it  sounds  rather  like  our 
curate  at  home  getting  to  work  on  When  the 
wicked  man  —  of  the  beauty  and  succulence  of 
her  other  wares.  Up  goes  Goffin  Js  hand 
again. 

"Na  pooh!"  he  exclaims.  "Bong  jooer!" 
And  he  stumps  out  to  the  mess-cart. 

"Na  pooh!"  is  a  mysterious  but  invaluable 
expression.  Possibly  it  is  derived  from  "II 
n'y  a  plus."  It  means,  "All  over!"  You 
say  "Na  pooh!"  when  you  push  your  plate 
away  after  dinner.  It  also  means,  "Not 
likely!"  or  "Nothing  doing!"  By  a  further 


THE    GATHERING   OF   THE   EAGLES    303 

development  it  has  come  to  mean  "done  for," 
" finished, "  and  in  extreme  cases,  "dead." 
"Poor  Bill  got  na-poohed  by  a  rifle-grenade 
yesterday, ' '  says  one  mourner  to  another. 

The  Oxford  Dictionary  of  the  English 
Language  will  have  to  be  revised  and  en- 
larged when  this  war  is  over. 

Meanwhile,  a  few  doors  away,  a  host  of 
officers  is  sitting  in  the  Cafe  de  la  Terre. 
Cafes  are  as  plentiful  as  blackberries  in  this, 
as  in  most  other  French  provincial  towns, 
and  they  are  usually  filled  to  overflowing 
with  privates  of  the  British  Army  heroically 
drinking  beer  upon  which  they  know  it  is 
impossible  to  get  intoxicated.  But  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Cafe  de  la  Terre  is  a  long- 
headed citizen.  By  the  simple  expedient  of 
labelling  his  premises  "Officers  Only,"  and 
making  a  minimum  charge  of  one  franc  per 
drink,  he  has  at  a  single  stroke  ensured  the 
presence  of  the  elite  and  increased  his  profits 
tenfold. 

Many  arms  of  the  Service  are  grouped 
round  the  little  marble-topped  tables,  for  the 
district  is  stiff  with  British  troops,  and  prom- 
ises to  grow  stiffer.  In  fact,  so  persistently 
are  the  eagles  gathering  together  upon  this, 
the  edge  of  the  fighting  line,  that  rumour  is 
busier  than  ever.  The  Big  Push  holds  re- 
doubled sway  in  our  thoughts.  The  First 
Hundred  Thousand  are  well  represented,  for 
the  whole  Scottish  Division  is  in  the  neighbour- 


304    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

hood.  Beside  the  glengarries  there  are  count- 
less flat  caps  —  line  regiments,  territorials, 
gunners,  and  sappers.  The  Army  Service 
Corps  is  there  in  force,  recruiting  exhausted 
nature  from  the  strain  of  dashing  ahout  the 
country-side  in  motor-cars.  The  E.A.M.C.  is 
strongly  represented,  doubtless  to  test  the  pur- 
ity of  the  refreshment  provided.  Even  the 
Staff  has  torn  itself  away  from  its  arduous 
duties  for  the  moment,  as  sundry  red  tahs 
testify.  In  one  corner  sit  four  stout  French 
civilians,  playing  a  mysterious  card-game. 

At  the  very  next  table  we  find  ourselves 
among  friends.  Here  are  Major  Kemp,  also 
Captain  Blaikie.  They  are  accompanied  by 
Ayling,  Bobby  Little,  and  Mr.  Waddell.  The 
battalion  came  out  of  trenches  yesterday, 
and  for  the  first  time  found  itself  in  urban 
billets.  For  the  moment  haylofts  and  wash- 
houses  are  things  of  the  dim  past.  We  are 
living  in  real  houses,  sleeping  in  real  beds, 
some  with  sheets. 

To  this  group  enters  unexpectedly  Captain 
Wagstaffe. 

" Hallo,  Wagger!"  says  Blaikie.  "Back 
already?" 

"Your  surmise  is  correct,"  replies  Wag- 
staffe,  who  has  been  home  on  leave.  "I  got 
a  wire  yesterday  at  lunch-time  —  in  the  Savoy, 
of  all  places!  Every  one  on  leave  has  been 
recalled.  We  were  packed  like  herrings  on 
the  boat.  Gargon,  Mere  —  the  brunette  kind ! ' ' 

"Tell  us  all  about  London,"  says  Ayling 


THE    GATHERING   OF   THE   EAGLES    305 

hungrily.  "What  does  it  look  like?  Tell 
us!" 

We  have  been  out  here  for  the  best  part 
of  five  months  now.  Leave  opened  a  fort- 
night ago,  amid  acclamations  —  only  to  be 
closed  again  within  a  few  days.  Wagstaffe 
was  one  of  the  lucky  few  who  slipped  through 
the  blessed  portals.  He  now  sips  his  beer 
and  delivers  his  report. 

"London  is  much  as  usual.  A  bit  "rattled 
over  Zeppelins  —  they  have  turned  out  even 
more  street  lamps  —  but  nothing  to  signify. 
Country  districts  crawling  with  troops.  All 
the  officers  appear  to  be  colonels.  Promotion 
at  home  is  more  rapid  than  out  here.  Chin, 
chin ! ' '  Wagstaffe  buries  his  face  in  his  glass 
mug. 

"What  is  the  general  attitude,"  asked  Mr. 
Waddell,  "towards  the  war?" 

"Well,  one's  own  friends  are  down  in  the 
dumps.  Of  course  it's  only  natural,  because 
most  of  them  are  in  mourning.  Our  losses 
are  much  more  noticeable  at  home  than 
abroad,  somehow.  People  seemed  quite  sur- 
prised when  I  told  them  that  things  out  here 
are  as  right  as  rain,  and  that  our  troops  are 
simply  tumbling  over  one  another,  and  that 
we  don't  require  any  comic  M.P.'s  sent  out 
to  cheer  us  up.  The  fact  is,  some  people 
read  the  papers  too  nmch.  At  the  present 
moment  the  London  press  is,  not  to  put  too 
fine  a  point  on  it,  making  a  holy  show  of 
itself.  I  suppose  there's  some  low-down 


306    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

political  rig  at  the  back  of  it  all,  but  the  whole 
business  must  be  perfect  jam  for  the  Bosches 
in  Berlin/' 

" What's  the  trouble?"  inquired  Major 
Kemp. 

" Conscription,  mostly.  (Though  why  they 
should  worry  their  little  heads  about  it,  I 
don't  know.  If  K.  wants  it  we'll  have  it: 
if  not,  we  won't;  so  that's  that!)  Both  sides 
are  trying  to  drag  the  great  British  Public 
into  the  scrap  by  the  back  of  the  neck.  The 
Conscription  crowd,  with  whom  one  would 
naturally  side  if  they  would  play  the  game, 
seem  to  be  out  to  unseat  the  Government 
as  a  preliminary.  They  support  their  argu- 
ments by  stating  that  the  British  Army  on  the 
Western  front  is  reduced  to  a  few  platoons, 
and  that  they  are  allowed  to  fire  one  shell 
per  day.  At  least,  that's  what  I  gathered." 

"What  do  the  other  side  say?"  inquired 
Kemp. 

"Oh,  theirs  is  a  very  simple  line  of  argu- 
ment. They  state,  quite  simply,  that  if  the 
personal  liberty  of  Britain's  workers  —  that 
doesn't  mean  you  and  me,  as  you  might 
think :  we  are  the  Overbearing  Militarist  Oli- 
garchy :  a  worker  is  a  man  who  goes  on  strike, 
—  they  say  that  if  the  personal  liberty  of 
these  sacred  perishers  is  interfered  with  by 
the  Overbearing  Militarist  Oligarchy  afore- 
said, there  will  be  a  Revolution.  That's  all! 
Oh,  they're  a  sweet  lot,  the  British  newspaper 
bosses!" 


THE    GATHEKING   OF   THE   EAGLES    307 

"But  what,"  inquired  that  earnest  seeker 
after  knowledge,  Mr.  Waddell,  "is  the  general 
attitude  of  the  country  at  large  upon  this 
grave  question?" 

Captain  Wagstaffe  chuckled. 

"The  dear  old  country  at  large,"  he  re- 
plied, "is  its  dear  old  self,  as  usual.  It  is  not 
worrying  one  jot  about  Conscription,  or  us, 
or  anything  like  that.  The  one  topic  of  con- 
versation at  present  is  —  Charlie  Chaplin." 

"Who  is  Charlie  Chaplin?"  inquired  sev- 
eral voices. 

Wagstaffe  shook  his  head. 

6  '  I  haven 't  the  faintest  idea, ' '  he  said.  ' l  All 
I  know  is  that  you  can't  go  anywhere  in 
London  without  running  up  against  him.  He 
is  It.  The  mention  of  his  name  in  a  revue 
is  greeted  with  thunders  of  applause.  At  one 
place  I  went  to,  twenty  young  men  came  upon 
the  stage  at  once,  all  got  up  as  Charlie 
Chaplin." 

"But  who  is  he?" 

"That  I  can't  tell  you.  I  made  several 
attempts  to  find  out;  but  whenever  I  asked 
the  question  people  simply  stared  at  me  in 
amazement.  I  felt  quite  ashamed:  it  was 
plain  that  I  ought  to  have  known.  I  have  a 
vague  idea  that  he  is  some  tremendous  new 
boss  whom  the  Government  have  appointed 
to  make  shells,  or  something.  Anyhow,  the 
great  British  Nation  is  far  too  much  en- 
grossed with  Charles  to  worry  about  a  little 
thing  like  Conscription.  Still,  I  should  like 


308    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

to  know.  I  feel  I  have  been  rather  unpatriotic 
about  it  all." 

"I  can  tell  you,"  said  Bobby  Little.  "My 
servant  is  a  great  admirer  of  his.  He  is  the 
latest  cinema  star.  Falls  off  roofs,  and  gets 
run  over  by  motors " 

"And  keeps  the  police  at  bay  with  a  fire- 
hose, "  added  Wagstaffe.  "That's  him!  I 
know  the  type.  Thank  you,  Bobby!" 

Major  Kemp  put  down  his  glass  with  a 
gentle  sigh,  and  rose  to  go. 

"We  are  a  great  nation,"  he  remarked  con- 
tentedly. "I  was  a  bit  anxious  about  things 
at  home,  but  I  see  now  there  was  nothing  to 
worry  about.  We  shall  win  all  right.  Well, 
I  am  off  to  the  Mess.  See  you  later,  every- 
body!" 

"Meanwhile,"  inquired  Wagstaffe,  as  the 
party  settled  down  again,  "what  is  brewing 
here  I  I  haven 't  seen  the  adjutant  yet. ' ' 

"You'll  see  him  soon  enough,"  replied 
Blaikie  grimly.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder 
towards  the  four  civilian  card-players.  They 
looked  bourgeois  enough  and  patriotic  enough, 
but  it  is  wise  to  take  no  risks  in  a  cafe,  as  a 
printed  notice  upon  the  war,  signed  by  the 
Provost-Marshal,  was  careful  to  point  out. 
"Come  for  a  stroll,"  he  said. 

Presently  the  two  captains  found  them- 
selves in  a  shady  boulevard  leading  to  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  Darkness  was  falling, 
and  soon  would  be  intense;  for  lights  are 
taboo  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  firing  line. 


THE   GATHERING   OF   THE   EAGLES    309 

"Have  we  finished  that  new  trench  in  front 
of  our  wire?"  asked  Wagstaffe. 

"Yes.  It  is  the  best  thing  we  have  done 
yet.  Divisional  Headquarters  are  rightly 
pleased  about  it." 

Blaikie  gave  details.  The  order  had  gone 
forth  that  a  new  trench  was  to  be  con- 
structed in  front  of  our  present  line  —  a 
hundred  yards  in  front.  Accordingly,  when 
night  fell,  two  hundred  unconcerned  heroes 
went  forth,  under  their  subalterns,  and, 
squatting  down  in  line  along  a  white  tape 
(laid  earlier  in  the  evening  by  our  imper- 
turbable friends,  Lieutenants  Box  and  Cox, 
of  the  Eoyal  Engineers),  proceeded  to  dig 
the  trench.  Thirty  yards  ahead  of  them, 
facing  the  curious  eyes  of  countless  Bosches, 
lay  a  covering  party  in  extended  order, 
ready  to  repel  a  rush.  Hour  by  hour  the 
work  went  on  —  skilfully,  silently.  On  these 
occasions  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  will 
happen.  The  enemy  knows  we  are  there: 
he  can  see  us  quite  plainly.  But  he  has 
his  own  night-work  to  do,  and  if  he  inter- 
feres with  us  he  knows  that  our  machine- 
guns  will  interfere  with  him.  So,  provided 
that  our  labours  are  conducted  in  a  manner 
which  is  neither  ostentatious  nor  contemp- 
tuous—  that  is  to  say,  provided  we  do  not 
talk,  whistle,  or  smoke  —  he  leaves  us  more 
or  less  alone. 

But  this  particular  task  was  not  accom- 
plished without  loss:  it  was  too  obviously 


310    THE   FIKST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

important.  Several  times  the  German  ma- 
chine-guns sputtered  into  flame,  and  each 
time  the  stretcher-bearers  were  called  upon 
to  do  their  duty.  Yet  the  work  went  on  to 
its  accomplishment,  without  question,  without 
slackening.  The  men  were  nearly  all  ex- 
perts :  they  had  handled  pick  and  shovel  from 
boyhood.  Soldiers  of  the  line  would  have 
worked  quite  as  hard,  maybe,  but  they  would 
have  taken  twice  as  long.  But  these  dour 
sons  of  Scotland  worked  like  giants  — trained 
giants.  In  four  nights  the  trench,  with 
traverses  and  approaches,  was  complete.  The 
men  who  had  made  it  fell  back  to  their  dug- 
outs, and  shortly  afterwards  to  their  billets  — 
there  to  spend  the  few  odd  francs  which  their 
separation  allotments  had  left  them,  upon 
extremely  hard-earned  glasses  of  extremely 
small  beer. 

At  home,  several  thousand  patriotic  Welsh- 
men, fellows  of  the  same  craft,  were  uphold- 
ing the  dignity  of  Labour,  and  the  reputation 
of  the  British  Nation,  by  going  out  on  strike 
for  a  further  increase  of  pay  —  an  increase 
which  they  knew  a  helpless  Government  would 
grant  them.  It  was  one  of  the  strangest  con- 
trasts that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  But  the 
explanation  thereof,  as  proffered  by  Private 
Mucklewame,  was  quite  simple  and  eminently 
sound. 

"All  the  decent  lads,"  he  observed  briefly, 
"are  oot  here." 


THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  EAGLES  311 

"Good  work!"  said  Wagstaffe,  when 
Blaikie 's  tale  was  told.  "What  is  the  new 
trench  for,  exactly  ?" 

Blaikie  told  him. 

"Tell  me  more!"  urged  Wagstaffe,  deeply 
interested. 

Blaikie 's  statement  cannot  be  set  down 
here,  though  the  substance  of  it  may  be  com- 
mon property  to-day.  When  he  had  finished 
Wagstaffe  whistled  softly. 

"And  it's  to  be  the  day  after  to-morrow!" 
he  said. 

"Yes,  if  all  goes  well." 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  The  horizon  was 
brilliantly  lit  by  the  flashes  of  big  guns,  and 
a  continuous  roar  came  throbbing  through  the 
soft  autumn  darkness. 

"If  this  thing  goes  with  a  click,  as  it  ought 
to  do,"  said  Wagstaffe,  "it  will  be  the  biggest 
thing  that  ever  happened  —  bigger  even  than 
Charlie  Chaplin." 

"Yes  —  if  I"  assented  the  cautious  Blaikie. 

"It's  a  tremendous  opportunity  for  our 
section  of  'K(l),'  "  continued  Wagstaffe. 
"We  shall  have  a  chance  of  making  history 
over  this,  old  man." 

"Whatever  we  make  —  history  or  a  bloomer 
-we'll  do  our  level  best,"  replied  Blaikie. 
"At  least,  I  hope  'A'  Company  will." 

Then  suddenly  his  reserved,  undemonstra- 
tive Scottish  tongue  found  utterance. 

"Scotland  for  Ever!"  he  cried  softly. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   THE   SLAG-HEAPS 

" HALF-PAST  two,  and  a  cold  morning,  sir." 

Thus  Bobby  Little's  servant,  rousing  his 
employer  from  uneasy  slumber  under  the  open 
sky,  in  a  newly-constructed  trench  running 
parallel  to  and  in  rear  of  the  permanent 
trench  line. 

Bobby  sat  up,  and  peering  at  his  luminous 
wrist-watch,  morosely  acquiesced  in  his  men- 
ial's gruesome  statement.  But  he  cheered 
up  at  the  next  intimation. 

"Breakfast  is  ready,  sir." 

Tea  and  bacon  are  always  tea  and  bacon, 
even  in  the  gross  darkness  and  mental  ten- 
sion which  precede  a  Big  Push.  Presently 
various  humped  figures  in  greatcoats,  having 
gathered  in  the  open  ditch  which  did  duty 
for  Officers'  Mess,  broke  into  spasmodic  con- 
versation —  conversation  rendered  even  more 
spasmodic  by  the  almost  ceaseless  roar  of 
guns.  There  were  guns  all  round  us  —  rank 
upon  rank :  to  judge  by  the  noise,  you  would 
have  said  tier  upon  tier  as  well.  Half  a  mile 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  313 

ahead,  upon  the  face  of  a  gentle  slope,  a 
sequence  of  flames  would  spout  from  the 
ground,  and  a  storm  of  shells  go  whistling 
on  their  way.  No  sooner  had  this  happened 
than  there  would  come  a  shattering  roar 
from  the  ground  beneath  our  feet,  and  a 
heavy  battery,  concealed  in  a  hedge  fifty- 
yards  to  our  front,  would  launch  its  contri- 
bution. Farther  back  lay  heavier  batteries 
still,  and  beyond  that  batteries  so  powerful 
and  so  distant  that  one  heard  the  shell  pass 
before  the  report  arrived.  One  of  these 
monsters,  coming  apparently  from  infinity 
and  bound  for  the  back  of  beyond,  lumbered 
wearily  over  the  heads  of  "A"  Company, 
partaking  of  breakfast. 

Private  Mucklewame  paused  in  the  act  of 
raising  his  canteen  to  his  lips. 

"There's  Wullie  awa'  for  a  walk!"  he 
observed. 

Considering  that  they  were  upon  the  eve  of 
an  epoch-making  combat,  the  regiment  were 
disappointingly  placid. 

In  the  Officers'  Mess  the  prevailing  note 
was  neither  lust  of  battle  nor  fear  of  death: 
it  was  merely  that  ordinary  snappishness 
which  is  induced  by  early  rising  and  uncom- 
fortable surroundings. 

"It's  going  to  rain,  too,"  grumbled  Major 
Kemp. 

At  this  moment  the  Colonel  arrived,  with 
final  instructions  from  the  Brigadier. 

"We  move  off  at  a  quarter  to  four,"  he 


314    THE   FIEST   HUNDEED   THOUSAND 


said,  "up  Fountain  Alley  and  Scottish 
Trench,  into  Central  Boyau" —  "boyau"  is 
the  name  which  is  given  to  a  communication- 
trench  in  trenches  which,  like  those  in  front 
of  us,  are  of  French  extraction  —  "and  so 
over  the  parapet.  There  we  extend,  as  ar- 
ranged, into  lines  of  half -companies,  and  go 
at  'em,  making  Douvrin  our  objective,  and 
keeping  the  Hohenzollern  and  Fosse  Eight 
upon  our  left." 

Fosse  Eight  is  a  mighty  waste-heap,  such 
as  you  may  behold  anywhere  along  the 
railway  in  the  colliery  districts  between 
Glasgow  and  Edinburgh.  The  official  map 
calls  such  an  eminence  a  Fosse;  the  Eoyal 
Engineers  call  it  a  Dump;  Operation  Orders 
call  it  a  Slag-Heap;  experts  like  Ogg  and 
Hogg  (who  ought  to  know  if  any  one  does) 
call  it  a  Bing.  From  this  distance,  two  miles 
away,  the  Fosse  looks  as  big  as  North  Ber- 
wick Law.  It  is  one  of  the  many  scattered 
about  this  district,  all  carefully  numbered 
by  the  Ordnance.  There  are  others,  again, 
towards  Hulluch  and  Loos.  Number  Eight 
has  been  the  object  of  pressing  attentions 
on  the  part  of  our  big  guns  ever  since 
the  bombardment  began,  three  weeks  ago; 
but  it  still  stands  up  —  gaunt,  grim,  and 
defiant  —  against  the  eastern  sky.  Whether 
any  one  is  left  alive  upon  it,  or  in  it,  is 
another  question.  We  shall  have  cause  to 
remember  Fosse  Eight  before  this  fight  is 
over. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  315 

The  Hohenzollern  Redoubt,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  a  most  inconspicuous  object,  but  a 
very  important  factor  in  the  present  situation. 
It  has  been  thrust  forward  from  the  Bosche 
lines  to  within  a  hundred  yards  of  our  own  — 
a  great  promontory,  a  maze  of  trenches, 
machine-gun  emplacements,  and  barbed  wire, 
all  flush  with  or  under  the  ground,  and  ter- 
ribly difficult  to  cripple  by  shell  fire.  It  has 
been  a  source  of  great  exasperation  to  us  — 
a  starting-point  for  saps,  mines,  and  bomb- 
ing parties.  As  already  stated,  this  mighty 
fortress  has  been  christened  by  its  construc- 
tors, the  Hohenzollern.  It  is  attached  to 
its  parent  trench-line  by  two  communicating 
trenches,  which  the  British  Army,  not  to  be 
outdone  in  reverence  to  the  most  august  of 
dynasties,  have  named  Big  and  Little  Willie 
respectively. 

A  struggling  dawn  breaks,  bringing  with 
it  promise  of  rain,  and  the  regiment  begins 
to  marshal  in  the  trench  called  Fountain 
Alley,  along  which  it  is  to  wind,  snake-like, 
in  the  wake  of  the  preceding  troops,  until 
it  debouches  over  the  parapet,  a  full  mile 
away,  and  extends  into  line. 

Presently  the  order  is  given  to  move  off, 
and  the  snake  begins  to  writhe.  Progress 
is  steady,  but  not  exhilarating.  We  have 
several  battalions  of  the  Division  in  front  of 
us  (which  Bobby  Little  resents  as  a  personal 
affront),  but  have  been  assured  that  we  shall 
see  all  the  fighting  we  want.  The  situation 


316    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

appears  to  be  that  owing  to  the  terrific  ar- 
tillery bombardment  the  attacking  force  will 
meet  with  little  or  no  opposition  in  the  Ger- 
man front-line  trenches;  or  second  line,  for 
that  matter. 

''The  whole  Division,"  explains  Captain 
Wagstaffe  to  Bobby  Little,  "  should  be  able  to 
get  up  into  some  sort  of  formation  about  the 
Bosche  third  line  before  any  real  fighting  be- 
gins ;  so  it  does  not  very  much  matter  whether 
we  start  first  or  fiftieth  in  the  procession." 

Captain  Wagstaffe  showed  himself  an  ac- 
curate prophet. 

We  move  on.  At  one  point  we  pass  through 
a  howitzer  battery,  where  dishevelled  gentle- 
men give  us  a  friendly  wave  of  the  hand. 
Others,  not  professionally  engaged  for  the 
moment,  sit  unconcernedly  in  the  ditch  with 
their  backs  to  the  proceedings,  frying  bacon. 
This  is  their  busy  hour. 

Presently  the  pace  grows  even  slower,  and 
finally  we  stop  altogether.  Another  batta- 
lion has  cut  in  ahead  of  us,  and  we  must  per- 
force wait,  snapping  our  fingers  with  im- 
patience, like  theatre-goers  in  a  Piccadilly 
block,  whose  taxis  have  been  held  up  by  the 
traffic  debouching  from  Berkeley  Street. 

"Luckily  the  curtain  doesn't  rise  till  five- 
fifty,"  observes  Captain  Wagstaffe. 

We  move  on  again  at  last,  and  find  our- 
selves in  Central  Boyau,  getting  near  the 
heart  of  things.  Suddenly  we  are  conscious 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  317 

of  an  overpowering  sense  of  relief.  Our  guns 
have  ceased  firing.  For  the  first  time  for 
three  days  and  nights  there  is  peace. 

Captain  Wagstaffe  looks  at  his  watch. 

"That  means  that  our  first  line  are  going 
over  the  parapet,"  he  says.  "Punctual,  too! 
The  gunners  have  stopped  to  put  up  their 
sights  and  lengthen  their  fuses.  We  ought 
to  be  fairly  in  it  in  half  an  hour." 

But  this  proves  to  be  an  under-estimate. 
There  are  mysterious  and  maddening  stop- 
pages—  maddening,  because  in  communica- 
tion-trench stoppages  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
find  out  what  is  the  matter.  Furious  messages 
begin  to  arrive  from  the  rear.  The  original 
form  of  inquiry  was  probably  something  like 
this:  "Major  Kemp  would  like  to  know  the 
cause  of  the  delay."  As  transmitted  sono- 
rously from  mouth  to  mouth  by  the  rank  and 
file  it  finally  arrives  (if  it  ever  arrives  at  all) 
in  some  such  words  as:  "Pass  doon;  what 
for  is  this  (asterisk,  obelus)  wait!"  But  as 
no  answer  is  ever  passed  back  it  does  not  much 
matter. 

The  righteous  indignation  of  Major  Kemp, 
who  is  situated  somewhere  about  the  middle 
of  the  procession,  reaches  its  culminating 
point  when,  with  much  struggling  and  push- 
ing and  hopeless  jamming,  a  stretcher  carry- 
ing a  wounded  man  is  borne  down  the  crowded 
trench  on  its  way  to  the  rear.  The  Major 
delivers  himself. 

4 '  This  is  perfectly  monstrous !  You  stretcher- 


318    THE    FIRST   HUNDRED    THOUSAND 

bearers  will  kill  that  poor  chap  if  you  try  to 
drag  him  down  here.  There  is  a  specially 
constructed  road  to  the  dressing-station  over 
there  —  Bart's  Alley,  it  is  called.  We  cannot 
have  up-and-down  traffic  jumbled  together 
like  this.  For  heaven's  sake,  Waddell,  pass 
up  word  to  the  C.O.  that  it  is  mistaken  kind- 
ness to  allow  these  fellows  down  here.  He 
must  send  them  back." 

Waddell  volunteers  to  climb  out  of  the 
trench  and  go  forward  with  a  message.  But 
this  the  Major  will  not  allow.  "Your  platoon 
will  require  a  leader  presently,"  he  mentions. 
"We'll  try  the  effect  of  a  note." 

The  note  is  passed  up,  and  anon  an  answer 
comes  back  to  the  effect  that  no  wounded  have 
been  allowed  down  from  the  head  of  the 
column.  They  must  be  getting  in  by  a  side- 
track somewhere.  The  Major  groans,  but  can 
do  nothing. 

Presently  there  is  a  fresh  block. 

"What  is  it  this  time  I ' '  inquires  the  afflicted 
Kemp.  "More  wounded,  or  are  we  being 
photographed?" 

The  answer  races  joyously  down  the  line  — 
"Gairman  prisoners,  sirr  —  seeventy  of 
them!" 

This  time  the  Major  acts  with  promptness 
and  decision. 

"Prisoners?  No,  they  don't!  Pass  up 
word  from  me  that  the  whole  boiling  are  to 
be  hoisted  on  to  the  parapet,  with  their  es- 
cort, and  made  to  walk  above  ground." 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  319 

The  order  goes  forward.  Presently  our 
hearts  are  rejoiced  by  an  exhilarating  sight. 
Across  the  field  through  which  our  trench 
winds  comes  a  body  of  men,  running  rapidly, 
encouraged  to  further  fleetness  of  foot  by 
desultory  shrapnel  and  stray  bullets.  They 
wear  grey-green  uniform,  and  flat,  muffin- 
shaped  caps.  They  have  no  arms  or  equip- 
ment: some  are  slightly  wounded.  In  front 
of  this  contingent,  running  even  more  rapidly, 
are  their  escort  —  some  dozen  brawny  High- 
landers, armed  to  the  teeth.  But  the  pris- 
oners exhibit  no  desire  to  take  advantage 
of  this  unusual  order  of  things.  Their  one 
ambition  in  life  appears  to  be  to  put  as  large 
a  space  as  possible  between  themselves  and 
their  late  comrades-in-arms,  and,  if  possible, 
overtake  their  captors. 

Some  of  them  find  time  to  grin,  and  wave 
their  hands  to  us.  One  addresses  the  scan- 
dalised M'Slattery  as  "Kamarad!"  "No 
more  dis  war  for  me!"  cries  another,  with 
unfeigned  satisfaction. 

After  this  our  progress  is  more  rapid.  As 
we  near  the  front  line,  the  enemy's  shrapnel 
reaps  its  harvest  even  in  our  deep  trench. 
More  than  once  we  pass  a  wounded  man, 
hoisted  on  to  the  parapet  to  wait  for  first-aid. 
More  than  once  we  step  over  some  poor  fellow 
for  whom  no  first-aid  will  avail. 

Five  minutes  later  we  reach  the  parapet  — 
that  immovable  rampart  over  which  we  have 
peeped  so  often  and  so  cautiously  with  our 


320    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

periscopes  —  and  clamber  up  a  sandbag  stair- 
case on  to  the  summit.  We  note  that  our 
barbed  wire  has  all  been  cut  away,  and  that 
another  battalion,  already  extended  into  line, 
is  advancing  fifty  yards  ahead  of  us.  Bul- 
lets are  pinging  through  the  air,  but  the 
guns  are  once  more  silent.  Possibly  they 
are  altering  their  position.  Dotted  about 
upon  the  flat  ground  before  us  lie  many 
kilted  figures,  strangely  still,  in  uncomfort- 
able attitudes. 

A  mile  or  so  upon  our  right  we  can  see  two 
towers  —  pit-head  towers  —  standing  side  by 
side.  They  mark  the  village  of  Loos,  where 
another  Scottish  Division  is  leading  the  at- 
tack. To  the  right  of  Loos  again,  for  miles 
and  miles  and  miles,  we  know  that  wave  upon 
wave  of  impetuous  French  soldiers  is  break- 
ing in  a  tempest  over  the  shattered  German 
trenches.  Indeed,  we  conjecture  that  down 
there,  upon  our  right,  is  where  the  Biggest 
Push  of  all  is  taking  place.  Our  duty  is  to 
get  forward  if  we  can,  but  before  everything 
to  engage  as  many  German  troops  and  guns 
as  possible.  Even  if  we  fight  for  a  week 
or  more,  and  only  hold  our  own,  we  shall 
have  done  the  greater  part  of  what  was 
required  of  us.  But  we  hope  to  do  more 
than  that. 

Upon  our  left  lies  the  Hohenzollern.  It 
is  silent;  so  we  know  that  it  has  been  cap- 
tured. Beyond  that,  upon  our  left  front, 
looms  Fosse  Eight,  still  surmounted  by  its 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   SLAG-HEAPS    321 

battered  shaft-tower.  Eight  ahead,  peeping 
over  a  low  ridge,  is  a  church  steeple,  with 
a  clock-face  in  it.  That  is  our  objective. 

Next  moment  we  have  deployed  into  ex- 
tended order,  and  step  out,  to  play  our  little 
part  in  the  great  Battle  of  the  Slag-Heaps. 


Twenty-four  hours  later,  a  little  group  of 
officers  sat  in  a  roomy  dug-out.  Major  Kemp 
was  there,  with  his  head  upon  the  plank 
table,  fast  asleep.  Bobby  Little,  who  had 
neither  eaten  nor  slept  since  the  previous 
dawn,  was  nibbling  chocolate,  and  shaking 
as  if  with  ague.  He  had  gone  through  a 
good  deal.  Waddell  sat  opposite  to  him, 
stolidly  devouring  bully-beef  out  of  a  tin 
with  his  fingers.  Ayling  reclined  upon  the 
floor,  mechanically  adjusting  a  machine-gun 
lock,  which  he  had  taken  from  his  haver- 
sack. Captain  Wagstaffe  was  making  cocoa 
over  a  Tommy's  Cooker.  He  looked  less  the 
worse  for  wear  than  the  others,  but  could 
hardly  have  been  described  as  spruce  in 
appearance.  The  whole  party  were  splashed 
with  mud  and  soaked  to  the  skin,  for  it  had 
rained  hard  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
night.  They  were  all  sick  for  want  of  food 
and  sleep.  Moreover,  all  had  seen  unusual 
sights.  It  was  Sunday  morning. 

Presently  Wagstaffe  completed  his  culinary 


322    THE    FIRST    HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

arrangements,  and  poured  out  the  cocoa  into 
some  aluminium  cups.  He  touched  Major 
Kemp  on  the  shoulder. 

"Have  some  of  this,  Major,"  he  said. 

The  burly  Kemp  roused  himself  and  took 
the  proffered  cup  gratefully.  Then,  looking 
round,  he  said  — 

61  Hallo,  Ay  ling!  You  arrived?  Where- 
abouts in  the  line  were  you?" 

"I  got  cut  off  from  the  Battalion  in  the 
advance  up  Central  Boyau,  sir,"  said  Ayling. 
"Everybody  had  disappeared  by  the  time 
I  got  the  machine-guns  over  the  parapet. 
However,  knowing  the  objective,  I  pushed 
on  towards  the  Church  Tower." 

"How  did  you  enjoy  yourself  passing  Fosse 
Eight?"  inquired  Captain  Wagstaffe. 

"Thank  you,  we  got  a  dose  of  our  own 
medicine  —  machine-gun  fire,  in  enfilade.  It 
was  beastly." 

"We  also  noticed  it,"  Wagstaffe  intimated. 
"That  was  where  poor  Sinclair  got  knocked 
out.  What  did  you  do?" 

"I  signalled  to  the  men  to  lie  flat  for  a 
bit,  and  I  did  the  same.  I  did  not  know 
that  it  was  possible  for  a  human  being  to 
lie  as  flat  as  I  lay  during  that  quarter  of 
an  hour.  But  it  was  no  good.  The  guns 
must  have  been  high  up  on  the  Fosse :  they 
had  excellent  command.  The  bullets  simply 
greased  all  round  us.  I  could  feel  them 
combing  out  my  hair,  and  digging  into  the 
ground  underneath  me. ' ' 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  323 

"What  were  your  sensations,  exactly?" 
asked  Kemp. 

"I  felt  just  as  if  an  invisible  person  were 
tickling  me,"  replied  Ay  ling,  with  feeling. 

6 '  So  did  I, ' '  said  Kemp.    <  <  Go  on. ' ' 

"I  heard  one  of  my  men  cry  out  that 
he  was  hit,"  continued  Ay  ling,  "and  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  we  would  have  a 
better  chance  as  moving  targets  than  as 
fixed;  so  I  passed  the  word  to  get  up  and 
move  forward  steadily,  in  single  file.  Ulti- 
mately we  struck  a  stray  communication- 
trench,  into  which  we  descended  with  as 
much  dignity  as  possible.  It  led  us  into 
some  quarries." 

"Off  our  line  altogether." 

"So  I  learned  from  two  Companies  of  an 
English  regiment  which  were  there,  acting 
as  reserve  to  a  Brigade  which  was  scrapping 
somewhere  in  the  direction  of  Hulluch;  so  I 
realised  that  we  had  worked  too  far  to  the 
right.  We  moved  out  of  the  quarries  and 
struck  over  half-left,  and  ultimately  found 
the  Battalion,  a  very  long  way  ahead,  in  what 
I  took  to  be  a  Bosche  third-line  trench,  fac- 
ing east." 

6 1  Eight !  Fosse  Alley, ' '  said  Kemp.  « '  You 
remember  it  on  the  map?" 

"Yes,  I  do  now,"  said  Ayling.  "Well, 
I  planted  myself  on  the  right  flank  of  the 
Battalion  with  two  guns,  and  sent  Sergeant 
Killick  along  with  the  other  two  to  the  left. 
You  know  the  rest." 


324    THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  do,"  said  the  Major. 
"We  were  packed  so  tight  in  that  blooming 
trench  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  move 
about,  and  I  only  saw  what  was  going  on 
close  around  me.  Did  you  get  much  machine- 
gun  practice  I ' ' 

"A  fair  amount,  sir,"  replied  Ay  ling,  with 
professional  satisfaction.  "There  was  a  lot 
of  firing  from  our  right  front,  so  I  combed 
out  all  the  bushes  and  house-fronts  I  could 
see;  and  presently  the  firing  died  down,  but 
not  before  I  had  had  one  gun  put  out  of 
action  with  a  bullet  through  the  barrel-cas- 
ing. After  dark  things  were  fairly  quiet, 
except  for  constant  alarms,  until  the  order 
came  to  move  back  to  the  next  trench. ' ' 

Major  Kemp's  fist  came  down  upon  the 
plank  table. 

'  '  Move  back ! "  he  exclaimed  angrily.  ' '  Just 
so!  To  capture  Fosse  Alley,  hold  it  all  day 
and  half  the  night,  and  then  be  compelled 
to  move  back,  simply  because  we  had  pushed 
so  far  ahead  of  any  other  Division  that  we 
had  no  support  on  either  flank !  It  was  tough 
—  rotten  —  hellish!  Excuse  my  exuberance. 
You  all  right,  Wagstaffe?" 

"Wonderful,  considering,"  replied  Wag- 
staff  e.  "I  was  mildly  gassed  by  a  lachry- 
mous  shell  about  two  o'clock  this  morning, 
but  nothing  to  signify." 

"Did  your  respirator  work?" 

"I  found  that  in  the  heat  of  the  moment  I 
had  mislaid  it." 

"What  did  you  do?" 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  325 

"I  climbed  on  to  the  parapet  and  sat  there. 
It  seemed  the  healthiest  spot  under  the  cir- 
cumstance :  anyhow,  the  air  was  pure.  When 
I  recovered  I  got  down.  What  happened 
to  'A,'  Bobby?  I  heard  rumours,  but 
hoped " 

He  hesitated. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  abruptly;  and  Bobby, 
more  composed  now,  told  his  tale. 

"A"  Company,  it  appeared,  had  found 
themselves  clinging  grimly  to  the  section  of 
Fosse  Alley  which  they  had  captured,  with 
their  left  flank  entirely  in  the  air.  Presently 
came  an  order.  Further  forward  still,  half- 
right,  another  isolated  trench  was  being  held 
by  a  portion  of  the  Highland  Brigade.  These 
were  suffering  cruelly,  for  the  German  artil- 
lery had  the  range  to  a  nicety,  and  convenient 
sapheads  gave  the  German  bombers  easy  ac- 
cess to  their  flanks.  It  is  more  than  likely  that 
this  very  trench  had  been  constructed  ex- 
pressly for  the  inveiglement  of  a  too  success- 
ful attacking  party.  Certainly  no  troops 
could  live  in  it  for  long.  "A"  Company  were 
to  go  forward  and  support. 

Captain  Blaikie,  passing  word  to  his  men  to 
be  ready,  turned  to  Bobby. 

"Pm  a  morose,  dour,  monosyllabic  Scot, 
Bobbie,"  he  said;  "but  this  sort  of  thing 
bucks  me  up." 

Next  moment  he  was  over  the  parapet  and 
away,  followed  by  his  Company.  In  that 
long,  steadily-advancing  line  were  many  of 
our  friends.  Mucklewame  was  there,  panting 


326    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

heavily,  and  cannily  commending  his  soul  to 
Providence.  Messrs.  Ogg  and  Hogg  were 
there,  shoulder  to  shoulder.  M*  Ostrich,  the 
Ulster  visionary,  was  there,  six  paces  ahead 
of  any  other  man,  crooning  some  Ironside 
canticle  to  himself.  Next  behind  him  came 
the  reformed  revolutionary,  M'Slattery. 

Straightway  the  enemy  observed  the  on- 
coming reinforcements,  and  shrapnel  began  to 
fly.  The  men  pressed  on,  at  a  steady  double 
now.  M'  Ostrich  was  the  first  to  go  down. 
Game  to  the  last,  he  waved  encouragement  to 
his  mates  with  a  failing  arm  as  they  passed 
over  his  body. 

"Come  along,  boys!"  cried  Captain  Blaikie, 
suddenly  eloquent.  "There  is  the  trench! 
The  other  lads  are  waiting  for  you.  Come 
along!  Charge !" 

The  men  needed  no  further  bidding.  They 
came  on  —  with  a  ragged  cheer  —  and  as- 
suredly would  have  arrived,  but  for  one  thing. 
Suddenly  they  faltered,  and  stopped  dead. 

Captain  Blaikie  turned  to  his  faithful  sub- 
altern panting  behind  him. 

"We  are  done  in,  Bobby, "  he  said.  "Look! 
Wire!" 

He  was  right.  This  particular  trench,  it 
was  true,  was  occupied  by  our  friends ;  but  it 
had  been  constructed  in  the  first  instance  for 
the  use  of  our  enemies.  Consequently  it  was 
wired,  and  heavily  wired,  upon  the  side  facing 
the  British  advance. 

Captain  Blaikie,  directing  operations  with 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  327 

a  walking-stick  as  if  the  whole  affair  were  an 
Aldershot  field-day,  signalled  to  the  Company 
to  lie  down,  and  began  to  unbutton  a  leather 
pouch  in  his  belt. 

"  You  too,  Bobby,"  he  said;  "and  don't  dare 
to  move  a  muscle  until  you  get  the  order  1" 

He  strolled  forward,  pliers  in  hand,  and 
began  methodically  to  cut  a  passage,  strand 
by  strand,  through  the  forest  of  wire. 

Then  it  was  that  invisible  machine-guns 
opened,  and  a  very  gallant  officer  and  Scots- 
man fell  dead  upon  the  field  of  honour. 

Half  an  hour  later,  "A"  Company,  having 
expended  all  their  ammunition  and  gained 
never  a  yard,  fell  back  upon  the  rest  of  the 
Battalion.  Including  Bobby  Little  (who 
seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life),  they  did  not 
represent  the  strength  of  a  platoon. 

"I  wonder  what  they  will  do  with  us  next," 
remarked  Mr.  Waddell,  who  had  finished  his 
bully. 

"If  they  have  any  sense  of  decency,"  said 
Major  Kemp,  "they  will  send  us  back  to  rest 
a  bit,  and  put  another  Division  in.  We  have 
opened  the  ball  and  done  a  lot  of  dirty  work 
for  them,  and  have  lost  a  lot  of  men  and  offi- 
cers. Bed  for  me,  please ! ' ' 

"I  should  be  more  inclined  to  agree  with 
you,  Major,"  said  Wagstaffe,  "if  only  we  had 
a  bit  more  to  show  for  our  losses." 

"We  haven't  done  so  badly,"  replied  Kemp, 


328    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

who  was  growing  more  cheerful  under  the 
influence  of  hot  cocoa.  "We  have  got  the 
Hohenzollern,  and  the  Bosche  first  line  at 
least,  and  probably  Fosse  Eight.  On  the 
right  I  hear  we  have  taken  Loos.  That's  not 
so  dusty  for  a  start.  I  have  not  the  slight- 
est doubt  that  there  will  be  a  heavy  counter- 
attack, which  we  shall  repel.  After  that  we 
shall  attack  again,  and  gain  more  ground,  or 
at  least  keep  the  Bosche  exceedingly  busy 
holding  on.  That  is  our  allotted  task  in  this 
entertainment  —  to  go  on  hammering  the  Hun, 
occupying  his  attention  and  using  up  his  re- 
serves, regardless  of  whether  we  gain  ground 
or  lose  it,  while  our  French  pals  on  the  right 
are  pushing  him  off  the  map.  At  least,  that 
is  my  theory:  I  don't  pretend  to  be  in  touch 
with  the  official  mind.  This  battle  will  prob- 
ably go  on  for  a  week  or  more,  over  practi- 
cally the  same  ground.  It  will  be  dreadful  for 
the  wounded,  but  even  if  we  only  hold  on  to 
what  we  have  gained  already,  we  are  the 
winners.  Still,  I  wish  we  could  have  con- 
solidated Fosse  Alley  before  going  to  bed." 

At  this  moment  the  Colonel,  stooping  low 
in  the  tiny  doorway,  entered  the  dug-out, 
followed  by  the  Adjutant.  He  bade  his  sup- 
porters good-morning. 

"I  am  glad  to  find  that  you  fellows  have 
been  able  to  give  your  men  a  meal,"  he  said. 
"It  was  capital  work  getting  the  ration-carts 
up  so  far  last  night." 

"Any  news,  Colonel?"  asked  Major  Kemp. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   SLAG-HEAPS    329 

"Most  decidedly.  It  seems  that  the  enemy 
have  evacuated  Fosse  Alley  again.  Nobody 
quite  knows  why:  a  sudden  attack  of  cold 
feet,  probably.  Our  people  command  their 
position  from  Fosse  Eight,  on  their  left  rear, 
so  I  don't  altogether  blame  them.  Whoever 
holds  Fosse  Eight  holds  Fosse  Alley.  How- 
ever, the  long  and  short  of  it  all  is  that  the 
Brigade  are  to  go  forward  again  this  evening, 
and  reoccupy  Fosse  Alley.  Meanwhile,  we 
consolidate  things  here." 

Major  Kemp  sighed. 

"Bed  indefinitely  postponed!"  he  remarked 
resignedly. 


m 


By  midnight  on  the  same  Sunday  the  Bat- 
talion, now  far  under  its  original  strength, 
had  re-entered  the  scene  of  yesterday's  long 
struggle,  filing  thither  under  the  stars,  by  a 
deserted  and  ghostly  German  looyau  nearly 
ten  feet  deep.  Fosse  Alley  erred  in  the  op- 
posite direction.  It  was  not  much  more  than 
four  feet  in  depth ;  the  chalky  parapet  could 
by  no  stretch  of  imagination  be  described 
as  bullet-proof;  dug-outs  and  communication- 
trenches  were  non-existent.  On  our  left  the 
trench-line  was  continued  by  the  troops  of 
another  Division:  on  our  right  lay  another 
battalion  of  our  own  brigade. 

"If  the  line  has  been  made  really  continuous 


330    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

this  time,"  observed  the  Colonel,  "we  should 
be  as  safe  as  houses.  Wonderful  fellows,  these 
sappers !  They  have  wired  almost  our  whole 
front  already.  I  wish  they  had  had  time  to 
do  it  on  our  left  as  well." 

Within  the  next  few  hours  all  defensive 
preparations  possible  in  the  time  had  been 
completed;  and  our  attendant  angels,  most 
effectively  disguised  as  Eoyal  Engineers,  had 
flitted  away,  leaving  us  to  wait  for  Monday 
morning  —  and  Brother  Bosche. 

With  the  dawn,  our  eyes,  which  had  known 
no  sleep  since  Friday  night,  peered  rheumily 
out  over  the  whitening  landscape. 

To  our  front  the  ground  stretched  smooth 
and  level  for  two  hundred  yards,  then  fell 
gently  away,  leaving  a  clearly  defined  skyline. 
Beyond  the  skyline  rose  houses,  of  which 
we  could  descry  only  the  roofs  and  upper 
windows. 

"That  must  be  either  Haisnes  or  Douvrin," 
said  Major  Kemp.  "We  are  much  farther  to 
the  left  than  we  were  yesterday.  By  the  way, 
was  it  yesterday  I ' ' 

"The  day  before  yesterday,  sir,"  the  ever- 
ready  Waddell  informed  him. 

"Never  mind;  to-day's  the  day,  anyhow. 
And  it's  going  to  be  a  busy  day,  too.  The  fact 
is,  we  are  in  a  tight  place,  and  all  through 
doing  too  well.  We  have  again  penetrated  so 
much  farther  forward  than  any  one  else  in  our 
neighbourhood  that  we  may  have  to  fall  back 
a  bit.  But  I  hope  not.  We  have  a  big  stake, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  331 

Waddell.    If  we  can  hold  on  to  this  position 
until  the  others  make  good  upon  our  right  and 
left,  we  shall  have  reclaimed  a  clear  two  miles 
of  the  soil  of  France,  my  son."    The  Major 
swept  the  horizon  with  his  glasses.    "Let  me 
see:    that  is  probably  Hulluch  away  on  our 
right  front:   the  Loos  towers  must  be  in  line 
with  us  on  our  extreme  right,  but  we  can't  see 
them  for  those  hillocks.     There  is  our  old 
friend  Fosse  Eight  towering  over  us  on  our 
left  rear.    I  don't  know  anything  about  the 
ground  on  our  absolute  left,  but  so  long  as 
that  flathead  regiment  hold  on  to  their  trench, 
we  can't  go  far  wrong.    Waddell,  I  don't  like 
those  cottages  on  our  left  front.    They  block 
the  view,  and  also  spell  machine-guns.    I  see 
one  or  two  very  suggestive  loopholes  in  those 
red- tiled  roofs.    Go  and  draw  Ay  ling's  atten- 
tion to  them.     A  little  preliminary  strafing. 
will  do  them  no  harm." 

Five  minutes  later  one  of  Ayling's  machine- 
guns  spoke  out,  and  a  cascade  of  tiles  came 
sliding  down  the  roofs  of  the  offending 
cottages. 

"That  will  tickle  them  up,  if  they  have 
any  guns  set  up  on  those  rafters,"  observed 
the  Major,  with  ghoulish  satisfaction.  "I 
wonder  if  Brer  Bosche  is  going  to  attack.  I 
hope  he  does.  There  is  only  one  thing  I  am 
afraid  of,  and  that  is  that  there  may  be 
some  odd  saps  running  out  towards  us, 
especially  on  our  flanks.  If  so,  we  shall  have 
some  close  work  with  bombs  —  a  most  un- 


332    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

gentlemanly  method  of  warfare.  Let  us  pray 
for  a  straightforward  frontal  attack. ' ' 

But  Brer  Bosche  had  other  cards  to  play 
first.  Suddenly,  out  of  nowhere,  the  air  was 
filled  with  "whizz-bang"  shells,  moving  in  a 
lightning  procession  which  lasted  nearly  half 
an  hour.  Most  of  these  plastered  the  already 
scarred  countenance  of  Fosse  Eight:  others 
fell  shorter  and  demolished  our  parapet. 
"When  the  tempest  ceased,  as  suddenly  as  it 
began,  the  number  of  casualties  in  the  crowded 
trench  was  considerable.  But  there  was  little 
time  to  attend  to  the  wounded.  Already  the 
word  was  running  down  the  line  — 

"Look  out  to  your  front ! ' ' 

Sure  enough,  over  the  skyline,  two  hundred 
yards  away,  grey  figures  were  appearing  — 
not  in  battalions,  but  tentatively,  in  twos  and 
threes.  Next  moment  a  storm  of  rapid  rifle 
fire  broke  from  the  trench.  The  grey  figures 
turned  and  ran.  Some  disappeared  over  the 
horizon,  others  dropped  flat,  others  simply 
curled  up  and  withered.  In  three  minutes 
solitude  reigned  again,  and  the  firing  ceased. 

"Well,  that's  that!"  observed  Captain 
Wagstaffe  to  Bobby  Little,  upon  the  right 
of  the  Battalion  line.  "The  Bosche  has  ' be- 
thought himself  and  went,'  as  the  poet  says. 
Now  he  knows  we  are  here,  and  have  brought 
our  arquebuses  with  us.  He  will  try  some- 
thing more  ikey  next  time.  Talking  of  time, 
what  about  breakfast?  WTien  was  our  last 
meal,  Bobby?" 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  333 

"Haven't  the  vaguest  notion/'  said  Bobby 
sleepily. 

' '  Well,  it 's  about  breakfast-time  now.  Have 
a  bit  of  chocolate  f  It  is  all  I  have. ' ' 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  perfect  silence 
reigned.  All  down  the  line  men,  infinitely 
grubby,  were  producing  still  grubbier  frag- 
ments of  bully-beef  and  biscuits  from  their 
persons.  For  an  hour,  squatting  upon  the 
sodden  floor  of  the  trench  —  it  was  raining 
yet  again  —  the  unappetising,  intermittent 
meal  proceeded. 

Then 

"Hallo  I"  exclaimed  Bobby  with  a  jerk  (for 
he  was  beginning  to  nod),  "what  was  that 
on  our  right?" 

"I'm  afraid,"  replied  Wagstaffe,  "that  it 
was  bombs.  It  was  right  in  this  trench,  too, 
about  a  hundred  yards  long.  There  must  be 
a  sap  leading  up  there,  for  the  bombers 
certainly  have  not  advanced  overground. 
I've  been  looking  out  for  them  since  stand-to. 
Who  is  this  anxious  gentleman?" 

A  subaltern  of  the  battalion  on  our  right 
was  forcing  his  way  along  the  trench.  He 
addressed  Wagstaffe. 

"We  are  having  a  pretty  bad  time  with 
Bosche  bombers  on  our  right,  sir,"  he  said. 
"Will  you  send  us  down  all  the  bombs  you 
can  spare?" 

Wagstaff e  hoisted  himself  upon  the  parapet. 

"I  will  see  our  C.O.  at  once,"  he  replied, 
and  departed  at  the  double.  It  was  a  risky 


334    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

proceeding,  for  German  bullets  promptly  ap- 
peared in  close  attendance;  but  he  saved  a 
good  five  minutes  on  Ms  journey  to  Battalion 
Headquarters  at  the  other  end  of  the  trench. 

Presently  the  bombs  began  to  arrive,  passed 
from  hand  to  hand.  Wagstaffe  returned,  this 
time  along  the  trench. 

"We  shall  have  a  tough  fight  for  it,"  he 
said.  "The  Bosche  bombers  know  their  busi- 
ness, and  probably  have  more  bombs  than  we 
have.  But  those  boys  on  our  right  seem  to 
be  keeping  their  end  up. ' ' 

"Can't  we  do  anything?"  asked  Bobby 
feverishly. 

"Nothing  —  unless  the  enemy  succeed  in 
working  right  down  here;  in  which  case  we 
shall  take  our  turn  of  getting  it  in  the  neck  — 
or  giving  it !  I  fancy  old  Ayling  and  his  pop- 
gun will  have  a  word  to  say,  if  he  can  find  a 
nice  straight  bit  of  trench.  All  we  can  do  for 
the  present  is  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  in  front. 
I  have  no  doubt  they  will  attack  in  force  when 
the  right  moment  comes. ' ' 

For  close  on  three  hours  the  bomb-fight 
went  on.  Little  could  be  seen,  for  the 
struggle  was  all  taking  place  upon  the  ex- 
treme right;  but  the  sounds  of  conflict  were 
plain  enough.  More  bombs  were  passed  up, 
and  yet  more;  men,  some  cruelly  torn,  were 
passed  down. 

Then  a  signal-sergeant  doubled  up  across 
country  from  somewhere  in  rear,  paying  out 
wire,  and  presently  the  word  went  forth  that 


THE   BATTLE   OF   THE   SLAG-HEAPS    335 

we  were  in  touch  with  the  Artillery.  Directly 
after,  sure  enough,  came  the  blessed  sound 
and  sight  of  British  shrapnel  bursting  over 
our  right  front. 

"That  won't  stop  the  present  crowd,"  said 
Wagstaffe,  "but  it  may  prevent  their  rein- 
forcements from  coming  up.  We  are  holding 
our  own,  Bobby.  What's  that,  Sergeant?" 

"The  Commanding  Officer,  sirr,"  announced 
Sergeant  Carfrae,  "has  just  passed  up  that 
we  are  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  to  our  left. 
They  Ve  commenced  for  to  bomb  the  English 
regiment  now." 

'  '  Golly,  both  flanks !  This  is  getting  a  trifle 
steep,"  remarked  Wagstaffe. 

Detonations  could  now  be  distinctly  heard 
upon  the  left. 

"If  they  succeed  in  getting  round  behind 
us,"  said  Wagstaffe  in  a  low  voice  to  Bobby, 
"we  shall  have  to  fall  back  a  bit,  into  line 
with  the  rest  of  the  advance.  Only  a  few 
hundred  yards,  but  it  means  a  lot  to  us!" 

"It  hasn't  happened  yet,"  said  Bobby 
stoutly. 

Captain  Wagstaffe  knew  better.  His  more 
experienced  eye  and  ear  had  detected  the  fact 
that  the  position  of  the  regiment  upon  the 
left  was  already  turned.  But  he  said 
nothing. 

Presently  the  tall  figure  of  the  Colonel  was 
seen,  advancing  in  leisurely  fashion  along  the 
trench,  stopping  here  and  there  to  exchange  a 
word  with  a  private  or  a  sergeant. 


336    THE   FIRST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"The  regiment  on  the  left  may  have  to  fall 
back,  men,"  he  was  saying.  "We,  of  course, 
will  stand  fast,  and  cover  their  retirement. ' ' 

This  most  characteristic  announcement  was 
received  with  a  matter-of-fact  "Varra  good, 
sir,"  from  its  recipients,  and  the  Colonel 
passed  on  to  where  the  two  officers  were 
standing. 

"Hallo,  Wagstaffe,"  he  said;  "good- 
morning!  We  shall  get  some  very  (pretty 
shooting  presently.  The  enemy  are  massing 
on  our  left  front,  down  behind  those  cottages. 
How  are  things  going  on  our  right?" 

"They  are  holding  their  own,  sir." 

"Good!  Just  tell  Ayling  to  get  his  guns 
trained.  Buf  doubtless  he  has  done  so  already. 
I  must  get  back  to  the  other  flank. ' ' 

And  back  to  the  danger-spot  our  C.O.  passed 
—  an  upright,  gallant  figure,  saying  little,  ex- 
horting not  at  all,  but  instilling  confidence 
and  cheerfulness  by  his  very  presence. 

Half-way  along  the  trench  he  encountered 
Major  Kemp. 

"How  are  things  on  the  left,  sir?"  was  the 
Major's  sotto  voce  inquiry. 

"Not  too  good.  Our  position  is  turned. 
We  have  been  promised  reinforcements,  but 
I  doubt  if  they  can  get  up  in  time.  Of  course, 
when  it  comes  to  falling  back,  this  regiment 
goes  last." 

"Of  course,  sir." 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   SLAG-HEAPS    337 


IV 


Highlanders!  Four  hundred  yards!  At 
the  enemy  advancing  half -left,  rapid  fir  el 

Twenty  minutes  had  passed.  The  regi- 
ment still  stood  immovable,  though  its  left 
flank  was  now  utterly  exposed.  All  eyes 
and  rifles  were  fixed  upon  the  cluster  of 
cottages.  Through  the  gaps  that  lay  be- 
tween these  could  be  discerned  the  advance 
of  the  German  infantry  —  line  upon  line, 
moving  towards  the  trench  upon  our  left. 
The  ground  to  our  front  was  clear.  Each 
time  one  of  these  lines  passed  a  gap  the  rifles 
rang  out  and  Ay  ling's  remaining  machine- 
gun  uttered  joyous  barks.  Still  the  enemy 
advanced.  His  shrapnel  was  bursting  over- 
head; bullets  were  whistling  from  nowhere, 
for  the  attack  in  force  was  now  being  pressed 
home  in  earnest. 

The  deserted  trench  upon  our  left  ran 
right  through  the  cottages,  and  this  re- 
stricted our  view.  No  hostile  bombers  could 
be  seen;  it  was  evident  that  they  had  done 
their  bit  and  handed  on  the  conduct  of 
affairs  to  others.  Behind  the  shelter  of 
the  cottages  the  infantry  were  making  a 
safe  detour,  and  were  bound,  unless  some- 
thing unexpected  happened,  to  get  round 
behind  us. 

"They'll  be  firing  from  our  rear  in  a 
minute,"  said  Kemp  between  his  teeth. 


338    THE   FIKST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

"Lochgair,  order  your  platoon  to  face  about 
and  be  ready  to  fire  over  the  parados. " 

Young  Lochgair 's  method  of  executing 
this  command  was  characteristically  thorough. 
He  climbed  in  leisurely  fashion  upon  the 
parados ;  and  standing  there,  with  all  his  six- 
foot-three  in  full  view,  issued  his  orders. 

"Face  this  way,  boys!  Keep  your  eyes 
on  that  group  of  buildings  just  behind  the 
empty  trench,  in  below  the  Fosse.  You'll 
get  some  target  practice  presently.  Don't 
go  and  forget  that  you  are  the  straightest- 
shooting  platoon  in  the  Company.  There 
they  are"  —  he  pointed  with  his  stick  —  "lots 
of  them  —  coming  through  that  gap  in  the 
wall!  Now  then,  rapid  fire,  and  let  them 
have  it!  Oh,  well  done,  boys!  Good  shoot- 
ing !  Very  good !  Very  good  ind ' ' 

He  stopped  suddenly,  swayed,  and  toppled 
back  into  the  trench.  Major  Kemp  caught 
him  in  his  arms,  and  laid  him  gently  upon 
the  chalky  floor.  There  was  nothing  more 
to  be  done.  Young  Lochgair  had  given  his 
platoon  their  target,  and  the  platoon  were 
now  firing  steadily  upon  the  same.  He  closed 
Ms  eyes  and  sighed,  like  a  tired  child. 

"Carry  on,  Major!"  he  murmured  faintly. 
"I 'mall  right." 

So  died  the  simple-hearted,  valiant  en- 
thusiast whom  we  had  christened  Othello. 

The  entire  regiment  —  what  was  left  of  it 
—  was  now  firing  over  the  back  of  the  trench ; 
for  the  wily  Teuton  had  risked  no  frontal 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  339 

attack,  seeing  that  he  could  gain  all  his  ends 
from  the  left  flank.  Despite  vigorous  rifle 
fire  and  the  continuous  maledictions  of  the 
machine-gun,  the  enemy  were  now  pouring 
through  the  cottages  behind  the  trench.  Many 
grey  figures  began  to  climb  up  the  face  of 
Fosse  Eight,  where  apparently  there  was 
none  to  say  them  nay. 

"We  shall  have  a  cheery  walk  back,  I 
don't  think!"  murmured  Wagstaffe. 

He  was  right.  Presently  a  withering  fire 
was  opened  from  the  summit  of  the  Fosse, 
which  soon  began  to  take  effect  in  the  ex- 
iguous and  ill-protected  trench. 

"The  Colonel  is  wounded,  sir,"  reported 
the  Sergeant-Major  to  Major  Kemp. 

"Badly?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Kemp  looked  round  him.  The  regiment 
was  now  alone  in  the  trench,  for  the  gallant 
company  upon  their  right  had  been  battered 
;almost  out  of  existence. 

"We  can  do  no  more  good  by  staying  here 
any  longer,"  said  the  Major.  "We  have  done 
our  little  bit.  I  think  it  is  a  case  of  'Home, 
John!'  Tell  off  a  party  to  bring  in  the  C.O., 
Sergeant-Major. ' ' 

Then  he  passed  the  order. 

"Highlanders,  retire  to  the  trenches  behind, 
by  Companies,  beginning  from  the  right." 

"Whatever  we  may  think  of  the  Bosche 
as  a  gentleman,"  mused  that  indomitable 
philosopher,  Captain  Wagstaff e,  as  he  doubled 


340    THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 

stolidly  rearward  behind  Ms  Company,  "  there 
is  no  denying  his  bravery  as  a  soldier  or  his 
skill  in  co-ordinating  an  attack.  It's  posi- 
tively uncanny,  the  way  his  artillery  supports 
his  infantry.  (Hallo,  that  was  a  near  one!) 
This  enfilade  fire  from  the  Fosse  is  most 
unpleasant.  (I  fancy  that  one  went  through 
my  kilt.)  Steady  there,  on  the  left:  don't 
bunch,  whatever  you  do!  Thank  heaven, 
there 's  the  next  line  of  trenches,  fully  manned. 
And  thank  God,  there 's  that  boy  Bobby  tumb- 
ling in  unhurt!" 

v 

V 

So  ended  our  share  in  the  Big  Push.  fNIt 
was  a  very  small  episode,  spread  over  quite 
a  short  period,  in  one  of  the  biggest  and 
longest  battles  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
It  would  have  been  easy  to  select  a  more 
showy  episode,  but  hard  to  find  a  better 
illustration  of  the  character  of  the  men  who 
took  part  in  it.  The  battle  which  began 
upon  that  grey  September  morning  has  been 
raging,  as  I  write,  for  nearly  three  weeks. 
It  still  surges  backwards  and  forwards  over 
the  same  stricken  mile  of  ground;  and  the 
end  is  not  yet.  But  the  Hun  is  being 
steadily  beaten  to  earth.  (Only  yesterday, 
in  one  brief  furious  counter-attack,  he  lost 
eight  thousand  killed.)  When  the  final  ad- 
vance comes,  as  come  it  must,  and  our 
victorious  line  sweeps  forward,  it  will  pass 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SLAG-HEAPS  341! 

over  two  narrow,  ill-constructed,  shell-torn 
trenches.  In  and  around  those  trenches  will 
be  found  the  earthly  remains  of  men  — 
Jocjss  and  Jimmies,  and  Sandies  and  Andies 
—  clad  in  the  uniform  of  almost  every  Scot- 
tish regiment.  That  assemblage  of  mute, 
glorious  witnesses  marks  the  point  reached, 
during  the  first  few  hours  of  the  first  day's 
fighting,  by  the  Scottish  Division  of  "K(1).'V 
Molliter  ossa  cubent. 

There  is  little  more  to  add  to  the  record 
of  those  three  days.  For  yet  another  night 
we  carried  on  —  repelling  counter-attacks, 
securing  the  Hohenzollern,  making  sorties 
out  of  Big  Willie,  or  manning  the  original 
front  line  parapet  against  eventualities.  As 
is  inevitable  in  a  fight  of  these  proportions, 
whole  brigades  were  mingled  together,  and 
unexpected  leaders  arose  to  take  the  place 
of  those  who  had  fallen.  Many  a  stout  piece 
of  work  was  done  that  night  by  mixed  bands 
of  kilties,  flat-heads,  and  even  cyclists,  mar- 
shalled in  a  captured  German  trench  and 
shepherded  by  a  junior  subaltern. 

Finally,  about  midnight,  came  the  blessed 
order  that  fresh  troops  were  coming  up  to 
continue  the  attack,  and  that  we  were  to 
be  extricated  from  the  melee  and  sent  back 
to  rest.  And  so,  after  a  participation  in  the 
battle  of  some  seventy-two  hours,  our  battered 
Division  came  out  —  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  utter 
exhaustion  in  dug-outs  behind  the  railway 
line,  and  to  receive,  upon  waking,  the  thanks 
of  its  Corps  Commander. 


342    THE   FIEST   HUNDRED   THOUSAND 


VI 


[And  here  I  propose  (for  a  time,  at  least)  to 
take  leave  of  The  First  Hundred  Thousand. 
Some  day,  if  Providence  wills,  the  tale  shall 
be  resumed;  and  you  shall  hear  how  Major 
Kemp,  Captain  Wagstaffe,  Ayling,  and  Bobby 
Little,  assisted  by  such  veterans  as  Corporal 
Mucklewame,  built  up  the  regiment,  with 
copious  drafts  and  a  fresh  batch  of  subalterns, 
to  its  former  strength. 

But  the  title  of  the  story  will  have  to 
be  changed.  In  the  hearts  of  those  who 
drilled  them,  reasoned  with  them,  sometimes 
almost  wept  over  them,  and  ultimately  fought 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  them,  the  sturdy, 
valiant  legions,  whose  humorously-pathetic 
career  you  have  followed  so  patiently  for 
fifteen  months,  will  always  be  First ;  but 
alas!  they  are  no  longer  The  Hundred 
Thousand. 

So  we  will  leave  them,  as  is  most  justly 
due,  in  sole  possession  of  their  proud  title. 


THE   END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
t  Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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